The Others
by thespian90
Summary: Peter's worst fears are realized when Mary-Jane becomes bonded with an advanced symbiote, cloned from his father's original work! Worse still, the creature slowly drags her into a world of assassination, subterfuge, spying, and abduction! Can Peter still help her, and will MJ be able to keep her innocence intact? Find out inside! Ultimate Spider-Man, after "War of Symbiotes."
1. Breakthroughs

**Trenton, New Jersey- **Night. That cool, calm time in which the world slept was completely lost on geneticist Carl Redfern. He was nervous. After all, this was one of the last presentations that he had to make to his superior, and he wanted it to go smoothly. Fortunately, he did not have to wait long. No sooner did he smooth back his bright red hair (clipped short, of course) than his superior, Dr. Mendel Stromm, entered Redfern's office. As always, Stromm appeared in every way the scientist everyone envisioned with their mind's eye. Stromm, with his white lab coat, ID badge, and bespectacled face peered upon his subordinate, clipboard in hand, and asked:

"Is it ready?"

"The specimen," inquired Redfern, "of course. Well, almost," he sheepishly added.

"Well, it's not like I expected you to be finished on time. After all, what we are doing is pushing the boundaries of what man has thought possible," said Stromm, entering his, "preachy phase," as Redfern called it. "Not to mention how many lives this will save."

"I suppose," added Redfern, with a sigh as he exited his office with Stromm following right behind him.

Redfern, as he walked through the identical, sterile hallways that composed the secretive government facility code-named Octagon, could not help but feel a surge of satisfaction and pleasure. Here was his life's work, nearly completed, and, despite his disinterest in Stromm's speech, (as he had already heard it numerous times before) he knew that his work would _indeed_ spare human lives, and it would also fulfill him with a sense of patriotism and pride, despite the fact that his work would garner no public recognition whatsoever.

Dr. Charles A. Redfern was a kid with a bright future, and in his opinion, he had spent it wisely. Born within the city of Boston, he had chosen to attend MIT, where his aspirations were to enter the rapidly growing bioengineering industry, no small feat. However, just before he was about to enter into the then-lucrative Oscorp, he was approached by Stromm, who made quite a compelling case for him to work in a government-sponsored laboratory. In any case, Redfern was now quite glad at his choice, especially after the collapse of both Hammer Industries _and_ Oscorp. Much better to be under the radar than on it.

After a few more twists within the labyrinthine corridors, the two geneticists finally reached the lab section, which featured heavy metal doors, which constantly made an electric hum, causing Redfern to believe that the doors were either electrified, magnetically-locked, or both. In any case, both scientists went through the tedious process of first swiping their ID badges under the scanners, then enduring a fingerprint and retinal scan, before finally inputting a code into two keypads on either side of the doorway. After a few seconds, there was a hissing sound of the doors being open, before the cool refrigerated air emanating from inside the laboratory beckoned them in.

Redfern, eager and yet at the same time nervous, walked briskly over to a row of metallic cabinets on the left of the door way. Redfern, after reaching the cabinets, scanned each of them until finally locating the one he was looking for, a cabinet with the name, "Toxin," on it, in bold-faced capital letters. Originally, each of the cabinets was numbered. Redfern, however, was never good at memorizing numbers, despite his otherwise magnificent prowess with the manipulations of genetics. So, after arriving at the Octagon, he immediately ordered that each of the cabinets be assigned a code name, the better for him and his research team to keep track of their multiple specimens and samples. _Power and influence certainly have their advantages,_ thought Redfern, as he unlocked the cabinet, taking out, in a large glass vial, a thick, gooey substance, which possessed a deep violet color, with a few traces of black, _but I just wish I didn't have to memorize all those damn codes._

"So, I assume this is it?" Inquired Stromm.

"Indeed. It is. I just hope it's worth it given the time my team and I poured into this specimen."

"Of that I have no doubt," responded Stromm, an amicable smile crossing his bearded face. "As I already know, the specimen is not yet complete. So tell me, what have you already done and what else is there you need to do?"

"Well," Redfern began, "where do I start. First off, the normal enhancements have proceeded along smoothly. We have ironed out all the 'kinks' in the cell growth process and have managed to, in my opinion, make one of the best replications of the original suit out there." He paused. "In any case, it took some time, but thanks to numerous months of research my team and I have been doing, we have successfully been able to imprint the correct genetic sequences into it. Specifically the linguistics and hand-to-hand combat sequences."

Stromm raised an eyebrow. "Hand-to-hand combat _and_ linguistics? I'm impressed. But, and forgive me if I'm raining on your parade, but how are the bonding and compliance protocols?"

Redfern replied immediately, without hesitation. "Well, the bonding protocols, based on our computer projections, can be carried out flawlessly and quickly, taking up to about twenty to thirty minutes, minimum. The compliance protocols are just as fail-safe. The person who bonds to this specimen will obey orders from a superior without question or hesitation."

Stromm stood facing the sealed glass vial, staring into the depths of the organism contained in there, mesmerized in thought. The rate of time it took for a person to bond to each of the previous suits usually took at least a day, if not weeks. Not to mention the amount of time it took to mentally condition each of the participants. It usually took months to prepare a new, "asset," to enter the field. This new shorter, quicker time-rate was a phenomenal breakthrough. Yet, he could not help but see a small glimpse of uncertainty cross his subordinate's visage, "What's the matter, Carl? What you've managed to accomplish here has exceeded my expectations, why the long face?"

"Well," Redfern began, "I'm well aware of the amazing progress I've managed to accomplish. Without my team, I'm pretty sure that the specimen wouldn't have turned out as well as it did. It's just that, I confess to having some fears about this specimen. For one thing, I fear it may be too smart. I mean, with everything we've put into it, I'm worried it might gain sentience, rebel, and escape. On another note, I confess to admitting that there are still a few problems with the bonding process. In our rush to successfully trim down the amount of time it takes to merge with a host, we haven't been able to trim it's, (I'm not quite sure how to say this), _appetite_ down to a more manageable level."

"Stromm cocked his head in confusion. "What do you mean by _appetite_?"

Redfern sighed. He should have known it was going to be difficult to explain this. Dr. Stromm was more of an administrator than a scientist. He had hundreds if not thousands of projects to oversee; he didn't have time for all the minute details. "What I'm trying to say is this. As you probably well know, the original Venom suit had a monstrous defect. In fairness, the project, based on the notes we managed to recover, was only in the second stage. Nevertheless, the fact of the matter is that it had a _huge_ defect. The suit, after bonding with a host, was constantly hungry, devouring any unfortunate passerby. While we've managed to correct that defect, there is still a problem. As you know, the previous symbiotes went through numerous genetic treatments and alterations so that they would only consume a small portion of the host's adrenaline. The problem with _this_ particular subject," he said, gesturing at the vial, "is that it still has an extremely fast metabolism and that if it bonds with the host, it may consume him or her immediately, leaving no remains whatsoever."

Stromm stood to regard his colleague for a moment or two. Then, he opened his mouth to speak, "I fully understand your concerns Carl, but frankly, I'm not that worried. What you and your team have accomplished here is incredible, and therefore you should be celebrating, not worrying about a few glitches. Besides, you yourself said you weren't finished with it yet, and given what you've already said you've managed to accomplish, I'm fairly certain that you'll be able to remedy these problems in no time. Now come, let us celebrate your progress with a drink or two. What do you say?"

Redfern, despite his worries, relaxed at the casual offer to share in a drink with his superior and acquaintance. It had been a while since he enjoyed himself, and he and his team can always iron out the remaining errors the next day. Not to mention-

Redfern's train of thought all of a sudden came to a screeching halt. He stared with a mortified expression on his face as Stromm, thinking nothing of it, casually tapped on the glass vial with his pen- "…now if you'll just put this away, then we can leave and I'll buy you a drink-" he was all of a sudden cut off by Redfern, who snatched away the glass vial the way a mother would snatch away a newborn infant.

"Don't touch it! Do you realize how sensitive this thing is?"

"I apologize. I meant no harm. I was just trying to get you to relax-"

Redfern would not be soothed. "Please, Professor. This thing is the newest edition of the suit, and as a result, it is very unpredictable, so I would appreciate it if you refrained from touching it in the near future, as a full measure of its artificial intelligence has not been done yet."

Stromm once again cast a benevolent smile. "I am sorry. It's apparent you are tense. If you aren't feeling like relaxing then I am sure that-"

Redfern interrupted hastily, "No, no, it's fine. Allow me to just return it to its locker and we can be on our way. And you're right. I _do_ need to relax."

And with that, Redfern returned the specimen to its locker and departed with Stromm, determined to not give another thought to the suit, determined to have a good time.


	2. Escape

_Where am I?_

It was three 'o' clock in the morning, a time when almost all of the scientists were at home, sleeping the night away, and a time that most of the security guards dubbed as, "the graveyard shift." Inside the refrigerated laboratory, there was no sound save for the thrumming of the refrigeration units.

_Hungry._

Inside the locker marked, "Toxin," something both amazing and at the same time startling had transpired within the glass vial.

_Escape. Must escape. Hungry. But how? Probe for exit. Find, search, locate, discover. _

_Escape. _

Inside the glass vial, the thick viscous substance began to undulate, it began to shift and alter its position so that the majority of the liquid was located at the bottom while the rest of it began to form itself into something else.

_Only one exit. Blocked. How? Must escape. __HUNGRY.__ Shrink and convert to microscopic size. _

With most of the organism flattened on the bottom of the container, a small pseudo-pod began to form in the center of the gooey substance, forming into a claw that reached for the top of the glass container. After discovering that the top was tightly sealed, it began to shrink, becoming invisible to the naked eye. Then, the artificial hand's fingers blossomed _out_ of the edges of the glass container, like some sort of ghastly flower, and began to undo the snaps of the container. Finally, after the top was removed, the organism proceeded to ooze slowly out of the jar.

_Stage one, complete. Second room, also blocked. Must find exit. __HUNGRY.__ Convert to microscopic size. Repeat._

Outside the locker, the room continued to hum, completely indifferent to what had just occurred within the locker. Then, the sides of the locker began to ooze a revolting thick substance, which could only be described as similar to chocolate sauce. Finally, the remainder of the liquid dropped down with a _plop_.

_Have to keep moving. Hungry. Can't stop. Surveillance cameras. Here? Perhaps. Find shelter. Escape. Most surveillance cameras are known as Closed-Circuit Television cameras (CCTVs) and can be unplugged or disabled in a number of convenient ways. _

The suit, after landing on the floor, immediately began to creep underneath the nearest table, and began to form into a hideous new form.

_Begin transformation into more practical form to ensure survival. _

What the specimen transformed into was beyond abhorrent. Perhaps the best description of it was a twisted parody on a human being. Its head, if that's what it could be described as, was a deep, dark violet, with multiple strands of black crisscrossing and overlapping the purple, save for the teeth, which were black and needlelike, and seemed to be perpetually distorted into some sort of horrific grin. The eyes were a bland white, outlined in jagged black, and there was some odd protrusions coming out from the back of the head that appeared disturbingly similar to human hair. The rest of the body was similarly atrocious. The hands were massive five-fingered claws, and the feet looked nothing like human feet, more like razor-sharp claws, similar to those of an eagle.

After forming the body, it quickly did a scan and blasted four of the security cams it discovered with a massive tentacle which immediately reconstituted to its former claw after the deed was finished. Then, after a quick glance around the room, its eyes, if one could call them that, settled upon a computer console sitting on a desk on the wall to its left. Walking towards it in a gait which could make one think it was walking on stilts, wobbling, teetering; it proceeded to extend its fingers until they entered the computer through the air vents, the process complete when the last drop of the specimen exited the lab and entered the computer.

Now, completely unfettered by any more physical impediments, the suit rocketed along rapidly, exiting the facility through a telephone line. Whilst travelling, only one thought managed to surface in this abomination's brain.

_Freedom. _


	3. Bonding Protocols

**Midtown High School, New York City, New York-** Peter Parker felt like the luckiest person in the world. Gwen Stacy, formerly believed to have been killed by the genetic monstrosity known as Carnage, was alive and well, and she was back with the Parkers. While she had not come back to school yet, he nevertheless felt pleased that she had been released from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody and as a result would be able to happily live the rest of her life as a healthy, happy (hopefully), and all-around _normal_ human being.

Also, it didn't hurt that he was making out with his girlfriend May-Jane Watson.

Peter eventually withdrew from their loving embrace, resulting in Mary-Jane (who preferred to be called MJ) asking, "What's wrong Peter?"

"Nothing, it's just that I feel I should be getting home."

"Why? What's wrong now? Is your Aunt alright?"

"Oh yeah, she's fine. She luckily hasn't had another heart attack, it's just that…" he trailed off.

"What? What's the matter? I hope you do realize you can tell me anything, given everything we've been through together."

"Yeah. It's just that, well, Gwen's back."

"WHAT!" MJ exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"Well, at first I thought she died, and then it turns out she got cloned, and then I thought she got killed _again_ by some new sort of S.H.I.E.L.D. thingy, and well, it's complicated."

"What? What do you mean a clone? Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. Tell that to me again."

"I'd rather not," said Peter, looking around to make sure that no one was eavesdropping, "it's a long story. The point is, she's back, except that it's been a bit chaotic, because S.H.I.E.L.D. agents keep coming to our house, and have to help her readjust back into a normal civilian life and run all sorts of tests and it's just been stressing my Aunt May out a lot, so I have to get home early so I can help her out."

MJ put her index finger to her chin, her face beginning to take on a pensive quality. "Tell me, at what time do the agents leave?"

Peter raised an eyebrow, curious at MJ's question, "Eight 'o' clock. Why?"

MJ's face broke into a grin. "Because I'm going to help you. I have nothing to do after school, which is right now, and I'm pretty sure that, based on what you said, your Aunt needs a bit of help. So, how about I come over to help, and then we can go out to dinner, and a movie, with Gwen, giving your Aunt plenty of downtime."

Peter, never far from a pun, said, "Downtime? Does anyone even _say_ that anymore?"

"Oh shut up," said MJ, giving Peter a playful push. "So what do you say?"

"I think it's a great idea. Just one question. Are you coming home with me now, or later?"

"Well," MJ said thoughtfully, "I'll be over as soon as possible. But first I have to stop at my house to tell my Mom where I'll be for the rest of the night. She can be pretty spastic at times."

Peter nodded. "I believe it. She was pretty freaked when you got grabbed by, well, you know," he said, casting a downward glance, not particularly interested in revisiting the, "Clone Saga," as he thought of it.

"Alright then," Mary-Jane said quickly, wanting to change the subject. I'll be there in…" she furrowed her brow in thought, "a half-hour. Sound good?"

"Sounds great. Thank you _so_ much. My Aunt's really going to appreciate this."

"No problem," MJ said, hoisting her pink backpack to her shoulders, "see you soon!"

"Later!" Peter said, waving at MJ. And with that, Peter grabbed his own backpack, the color a deep blue, and walked toward the direction of his house, excited for the upcoming evening plans.

***

_Hungry._

It was getting late and the suit, having gone almost twenty-four hours without nourishment, was beginning to weaken.

_So Hungry_.

After its daring escape at three 'o' clock in the morning from the massive government building in New Jersey, it had since spent its time searching, in vain, for a suitable human host for bonding and feeding. So far, no luck.

The suit, after escaping through a telephone pole, had travelled many miles before finally reaching another computer inside a small apartment. Fortunately, no one was home at the time, allowing the specimen to escape out of the window unseen in the same fashion that it had escaped through its glass vial and storage locker: by slowly oozing through. After touching down onto the street level and traversing numerous back-alleys, it had then, in order to conserve its remaining energy, stowed away on the bottom of a small truck, scanning each of the civilians it could see to determine whether or not they would make for a suitable host. So far, none had fit the bill.

Part of the problem was its genetic codes, and the other part was its metabolism. The genetic safeguards put into place by the lab technicians made it impossible for the symbiote to effectively bond to someone. If the possible host appeared normal and did not have any quick metabolism, then it was a no-go, as bonding would mean the immediate consumption of the unlucky subject. The only way it could bond to an inferior person was if it got hungry enough for the safeguards to break down, meaning that it had switched from following its genetic protocols to self-preservation. The other problem was its metabolism. It was just too fast. If its metabolism were slowed down, then almost any ordinary citizen would do, given that he or she would be a compatible match. Alas, this was not the case. Fortunately, its luck was about to change.

The afternoon sun was slowly, inexorably beginning to set, and the suit, securely latched to what was a vending machine truck, was observing its surroundings as best it could, given the speed of the car. Based on its observations, it was in a residential area, and while scanning all of a sudden picked up an incredibly warm, actually hot, signal.

This was what it was waiting for. Here was someone who had a perfectly compatible metabolism, and as a result, it would not have to worry about accidently consuming the host. With no further thought save for its own survival, it immediately detached from its hidden quarters and began to stealthily approach the person-of-interest. Knowing full well that it could not bond to the chosen subject in the middle of a public residential area, it chose to instead slip into the target's backpack, choosing to wait patiently until the subject arrived at his or her house in order to carry out the bonding process. Secure in the knowledge that it would no longer be in risk of perishing, the revolting abomination sat in the backpack, eager for the subject to arrive home.

***

"Hello?" MJ called as she entered her home. "Mom?"

She glanced around the kitchen. It was dark. She called again, searching around the house for her mother.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

No answer. She shrugged. _She's probably just working late_, she thought to herself, _might as well leave a note. But first, I need something to drink._

After dropping her backpack onto the floor near the kitchen island, she then walked over to the fridge, opened the door, and inspected its contents.

_Hmmm. Nothing great. Guess I'll just have some milk,_ she thought, taking out a glass from an overhead cabinet stationed to the right of the fridge, pouring the contents of the milk carton into the glass, and then emptying the glass. After she completed the milk and set the glass in the sink, she then located a sticky note and began to write a quick note to her mother, informing her where she would be, who to call, and that she would have her cell-phone on her person. She was finishing the note with a, "Love, MJ," when she all of a sudden heard something. It was imperceptible at first, but eventually she realized that she was not imagining this sound. A _plopping_ sound. It was real, and it was coming from within the kitchen, behind her back.

She froze. Here she was, inside her house, with encroaching darkness chasing the retreating sun away, and she was hearing something out of the ordinary _oozing_.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. One would figure, after being thrown off a bridge, being shot at, kidnapped, chased, and genetically altered, she would be accustomed to unnatural sounds and sights. But MJ knew, she knew that it never got old, she never got jaded. The primal fear that gripped her now was just as strong as when it had gripped her in the past, just as fierce, and just as nerve-wracking.

Slowly, cautiously, she began to place the pen down gently with a quivering hand, just barely able to finish her signature. Then she straightened, and, although she did not want to, she slowly began to turn around.

It had only taken a few seconds, but to her, it felt like an eternity before she finally turned herself around, facing the door. Immediately upon seeing the gruesome sight set upon her eyes, she opened her mouth to scream, but was cut short as a long purple-black tentacle wrapped around her mouth, yanking her with incredible strength towards this hideous abomination.

It was disgusting. Immediately after being grabbed by this, this thing and pulled towards it, she was enveloped in a hideous purple-with-streaks-of-black goo that she could not extricate herself from. Reacting in a panicked frenzy, her arms immediately reached for the tentacle still muffling her screams, but found her arms stuck fast in the sticky solution. She tried to pull her arms up, but found that the more she resisted, the deeper her arms sank. Soon her legs and arms were completely enveloped in the revolting substance, and, to her unbridled horror, the goo continued to spread, enveloping her entire body until only her head remained on the surface. But soon enough, that too, sank into the muck. Now, completely submerged in this hideous, revolting substance, she began to breathe heavily, in short, ragged gasps. All of sudden, her body began quivering and shaking, and then to compound to her horror, she began to transform. She had begun to transform into a hideous red abomination that she had previously thought to be impossible, given the fact that Dr. Richards and Dr. Storm both claimed to have, "cured her of her condition," a fact that she now knew to no longer be true.

All of a sudden, she felt a sharp, stabbing pain in her neck, and immediately after the feeling dissipated, she began to feel really woozy and tired. The last thing she remembered feeling was, the sweet, welcoming embrace of a toxin-induced sleep.


	4. Choices

Morning. MJ awoke with a start, gasping for breath, looking around at her surroundings. She was dressed in her pajamas, on her bed, in her bedroom, with the clock reading eleven-fifty in the morning. _What happened last night?_ She thought to herself. _Did I dream all that, or—_she peered down at her body, feeling her neck, arms, legs and chest, trying to ascertain just what exactly had happened the night before. Everything seemed to be in order; there was no abrasion or scar from the needling pain she felt in her neck last night. What more, there did not seem to be any sort of obvious aftereffects of a possible transformation into something large and hideous.

What MJ did not know was that in the past, in both the derelict Oscorp lab and later in the Baxter Building, she underwent an, "OZ," transformation into a hairy red behemoth, ravaging anything and everything around her. Essentially, her transformation could be described as being similar to the effects of drinking too much alcohol and becoming intoxicated. She blacked out, and after reverting back to normal, would immediately pass out. She possessed no control upon completing the transformation. Unlike the former Norman Osborn, who somehow managed to form coherent speech whenever he changed into his Goblin persona, or his former son Harry, which also was able to occasionally get some words to the surface, perhaps as a result of the numerous hypnotherapy sessions he had to endure, MJ utterly lacked any ability to control herself after mutating.

_Okay. So let's go through what happened here. First, I come home. Then I get grabbed by some sort of purple-black tentacle thing, and then I wake up in bed. So, is this in my imagination or what? _

Eventually she concluded that it would probably best to get dressed, and go downstairs, to see if her mother knew anything. So, after throwing on a pair of jeans and a pink T-shirt, she came downstairs and entered the kitchen, finding her mother reading the newspaper, coffee in one hand, appearing thoroughly relaxed.

MJ's mother, noticing that her daughter had awoken from her slumber and had come downstairs, said, "Good Morning. Feeling well-rested?"

"Yeah, I guess," replied MJ, looking around the kitchen for any signs of evidence alluding to the events that had transpired the night before.

"You guess? Well, I'd hope you had a good sleep, given the fact that you were asleep for-" she glanced up at the wall-mounted clock perched on the wall facing the kitchen table, "almost ten or more hours."

"What!" MJ exclaimed with surprise, "that long?"

Mrs. Watson nodded, "You were asleep when I got home at seven-thirty. I kept expecting you to wake up, but you never did. You slept all the way through dinner! You must've been pretty tired."

"I guess," said MJ, rubbing her forehead in thought. She was really confused now. "Did Peter by any chance call?"

"Actually, I called him. After I read your note I immediately called his house, but he said you weren't there. So I checked upstairs, and sure enough, there you were, sleeping. So I told him to call back, which he did, around eight 'o' clock or so, and I said you were still sleeping. So then he told me to give you a message: as soon as you wake up, he wants you to come over."

"Oh my God!" MJ exclaimed, "I completely forgot. I better get over there now!" And with that, she grabbed her jacket and headed out the door.

"Mary, wait!" Said MJ's mother, calling out to her daughter. But it was too late, she was already out the door, "you forgot to eat breakfast!" She peered out the door at her rapidly disappearing daughter, sighed, and returned to the table, to finish her coffee and newspaper. _Ah love,_ she thought to herself, _what are you gonna do?_

***

**Trenton, New Jersey-** Carl Redfern was not having a good day. It all began at his home, a well-to-do house in the affluent suburbs of South Trenton, also known as the South Ward. After having a couple of drinks with Stromm, they then parted ways, with Redfern returning to his house, and immediately falling asleep. Waking up the next day, he found that he had a painful, yet tolerable headache from the consumption of several beers the night before. After eating breakfast, showering, and getting dressed, he drove to the Octagon, arriving precisely at five 'o'clock, the same time he always came in. After getting settled into his office, he then met with his team, and they all headed down into the laboratory to continue their work on the specimen. Unfortunately, upon arriving at the entrance to the lab, they found that it was cordoned off by several members of the security team that routinely patrolled the building. A fairly alarmed and visibly worried Redfern approached the sergeant in charge of security, a man by the name of Jack Richardson. A massive man, Redfern always found him a bit intimidating, given that he was about the same size as a small boulder, and his uniform of blue combat fatigues coupled with body armor gave Redfern the impression of a powerful tank. Fearing the worst, he looked up at Richardson and asked:

What happened?"

Richardson, peering down at the small (by his size) young man, smoothed out his big bushy moustache before answering, "Well, Doctor, I was hoping _you_ could tell _me_."

"Wait, what?" Inquired an increasingly edgy Redfern, "Are you saying that _I_ did something?"

"Not exactly," said Richardson, adjusting his big blue baseball cap, an accessory to the rest of the uniform, "it's-it's more-I think you better come inside."

Redfern, very confused, acquiesced, following Richardson inside the lab.

Upon entry into the lab, Redfern soon found that it was very crowded, with multiple people he did not recognize. A few of the people were security guards, with their ubiquitous body armor, navy blue combat fatigues, and M4A1 assault rifles. The others were local police investigators, judging from their outfits and badges.

"Wait, you let local police into this facility?"

"We didn't really have much of a choice. We're security guards. All we're supposed to do is guard things and patrol hallways. We aren't much of a forensic investigative unit."

"But still," sputtered Redfern, "this is a top-secret government facility. We can't just have _anyone_ come in. What if they decide to tell their local congressman or something? Hmm? Then what?"

Richardson regarded the scientist with calm blue eyes. "I wouldn't worry Doctor. We told them that they have to handle this investigation with the utmost confidentiality. They won't talk."

Redfern sighed, defeated. "Alright, so, why'd you need me here?"

"Well," began Richardson, "around three-oh-three AM, one of my boys was doing surveillance when he reported that four of the security cameras within this laboratory went black. We thought that it was just a malfunction. After all, these things break down all the time, given the temperature of this room. So I sent two of my guys down to the lab to check on the cameras. After coming in, they notice that all four of the cameras are busted. Some of them are crushed, and others are covered with some sort of purple slop. Given the fact that this was a lab, they didn't want to touch it in case they turned into something ugly. So they reported it to me, I cordoned off the lab, and called the Trenton police department, asking if they could send some of their investigators up." He paused. "And then you got here, and well, the forensics team was hoping you could enlighten them as to what the slime is that they pulled off of some of the cameras."

Redfern's stomach turned. This was not good. His worst fear was realized. Their experiment had escaped. Or had it? More likely it was stolen, which still didn't give him much comfort. He wasn't sure how, but it made no difference as to whether or not it was stolen. Either way it was gone.

He made his way to the locker. Richardson was distracted, being called by someone. On the front of the locker labeled, "Toxin," it appeared normal, as though there was nothing wrong. Slowly, he opened the locker, and peered inside. The glass vial, that had formerly stored the specimen, was empty, the lid somehow removed. He began to feel like screaming when, all of a sudden, he heard a voice calling him.

"Redfern! Come Here!"

Redfern paused. He knew that voice. Slowly he turned around, eventually facing the beet-red Mendel Stromm, his craggy features twisted into a scowl.

Stromm beckoned him with his hand. "Come! I want to talk to you in my office!" Resignedly, Redfern followed him.

After reaching Stromm's office, a spacious room with floor-to-ceiling windows, a beautiful desk, and spacious furniture, Redfern was then instructed to sit in a chair facing the windows, while Stromm shut the door before approaching him.

"So, why don't you tell me what the hell happened last night?"

Redfern glanced up into his glaring eyes. "Well sir, I'm not exactly sure yet, but what I do know is-"

"Spare me. Instead of you blabbering on and on, why don't I just _show_ you what happened."

"Sir?" Asked a visibly confused Redfern.

"As you might have already figured out, the damned symbiote, suit, whatever you want to call it escaped. At first I thought that someone had stolen it, so naturally, I assumed it was either you or someone on your team."

"What?" Redfern exclaimed, indignation in his voice. "That's preposterous. How dare you question me and my team's integrity, that's outrageous, I mean-"

"I wasn't finished yet," Stromm interrupted. "So at first I thought that it was you or someone on your team, but then, after viewing the security cam footage, I discovered the truth," he said, placing his laptop onto his desk, flipping it up, and showing Redfern a video obviously copied from the surveillance network, paused. "Take a look."

Redfern stared at the screen. As the video played, everything seemed normal. You could see from all four angles in the laboratory, corresponding to the location of each of the cameras. Then, all of a sudden, underneath a lab table, he began to see a flickering of some sort. After the flickering had ceased, he watched intently as _something_ lashed out at each of the security cameras, causing part of the screen to blacken out. Finally, the black thing lashed at the last camera, causing the last security camera to go dark. Blinking, he looked up at his superior, and asked:

"Wait, I'm confused. Who unlocked the cabinet and took the specimen? And was that the specimen under the table? Was it the one who took out the cameras too? I, mean, it still doesn't seem too clear."

Stromm glanced down at his associate, but said nothing. Instead, he rewound the video and played it again, this time zooming in on the locker where the suit was held. After resolving the image, providing a much clearer picture, he then began to play the video again, only much more slowly.

Redfern looked up at his boss, and then back at the screen. He wasn't sure where Stromm was going with this. He couldn't see anything. The camera-he stopped. Peering closer to the screen, he noticed that the locker appeared to be _oozing_. Oozing some thick, purple substance which reminded him of pancake syrup. Then, all of a sudden, everything became clear. Continuing to watch the video provided several essential details that he desperately needed. Mainly, the fact that no one had broken into the laboratory and stolen the suit, but instead, the suit had escaped on its own. Continuing to view the video showed the specimen crawling under the lab table, where it then transformed into a hideous humanoid form, before finally taking out each of the cameras with what Redfern could only guess was an appendage of some sort. After watching the video for a third time, he then leaned back in his chair, and looked up into the bespectacled face of Professor Stromm, before asking:

"So now what?"

I'm not quite sure. I'm still trying to think of the best plan of action. What I want to know was how it managed to gain sentience and escape."

Redfern, who was about to inform his superior, again, that a full measure of its intelligence was not yet recorded, was suddenly struck by a pang of conscience. "Oh God. The specimen. It's loose, and for all I know, probably on a feeding frenzy now," he moaned, putting his head into his hands. "I- I can't deal with the responsibility of this, I have to call somebody." He reached for Stromm's phone until Stromm put a gentle, yet restraining arm on Redfern's shoulder.

"Let's not be too hasty. Let me check the news first, and then we'll decide if we need to go into damage-control mode." And with that, Stromm walked around to the back of his desk, where he opened a drawer, took out a television remote, and turned on the flat-screen television mounted on the wall facing his desk. He flipped through all of the twenty-four hour news channels, and found absolutely no story regarding the suit. Satisfied, he turned off the television.

"You see? Nothing to worry about. Chances are it found a compatible host, maybe the one that you assigned to it. The point is, you shouldn't panic about it."

"What? You're joking, right? We have an unlicensed, uncompleted genetic mutation out there, **and you're telling me not to worry?**"

Stromm stared, unaffected by Redfern's outburst. "Excuse me, but I think you're forgetting something. What we're doing here is top secret. Hush-hush. If you want to report this, fine. But just remember that the second you report this, there's going to be a full-scale investigation, with indictments, and maybe even arrests. What we're doing is extra-legal. I'm not even sure Congress has approved it."

Redfern's eyes widened. He didn't think about that.

"And one more thing," Stromm continued. "If you do get indicted, and believe me, you _will_ get indicted, there won't be a corporation or college that will take you," he said. "Even if you don't get tried and sentenced to a lengthy jail term."

Redfern stared, incredulous. "So what's your point?"

Stromm stared right back. "My point is, if we don't do something about this, if we don't proceed with this normally, we will both burn for this. You understand me? We will both _burn_ for this."

Redfern was shocked. He didn't consider this. What he wanted to do was retire early, collecting a big, fat government pension. He now realized that reporting this incident to a higher authority would scuttle all those plans. But at the same time, human lives were possibly at stake. What was he going to do? He never wanted to endanger anybody, but that was what he would be doing if he didn't report this problem in. Struggling with his conscience, his eyes began to linger on Stromm's telephone, desperately wishing for an easy way out of this predicament.

"Hurry up," said Stromm, reclining in his office chair, "make up your mind. Are you going to call S.H.I.E.L.D., and tell them the whole thing, or are you going to bury this, and call the project's headquarters and tell them that the last specimen is ready for activation."

Redfern stared at the phone.

"Your choice," Stromm said, his temper surprisingly cool as compared to a few minutes ago.

Redfern continued to stare at the phone.

"Come on, come on. I don't have all day," said Stromm gruffly.

Then, using what felt like all the willpower in the world, he picked up the telephone, and began dialing.


	5. Operation Cryptkeeper

"So, just for the record, I am so _sorry_."

"It's okay."

"Then you believe me?"

"Sure."

You'd believe that if there was anything I could've done to change what happened last night, I would have done it?"

Peter Parker smiled. MJ was always so sweet, even after their numerous break-ups and tensions in between them, and Kitty Pryde. Fortunately, those tensions were slowly ebbing away, due to the recent flirtations of Kenny, "Kong," McFarlane. In any case, Peter, although initially worried for MJ's well-being after she failed to show up at four-thirty, was relieved upon calling her house, and discovering that she was merely sleeping. Nevertheless, this puzzled him.

"I believe you MJ, it's okay. However, I am curious. You said you'd be coming to my house about a half-an-hour after you arrived home. So what happened, did you just doze off? Did you feel like taking a nap, or what?"

"Well," MJ replied uneasily, "I must've taken a nap, that must be it."

Peter raised an eyebrow, skeptically. "Alright then."

MJ's eyes all of a sudden darted up to stare at Peter, defensively. "Look, what do you want me to tell you? I'm not entirely sure what happened last night, okay? I told you, I came home, had a glass of milk, and then I think I passed out. Even _I'm_ not sure of everything that happened last night. Most likely scenario? I went home, had a glass of milk, maybe had another one of those weird flashback-nightmare thingies, and then ran upstairs and passed out. That's the best recollection I can give you."

Peter stared at MJ, a look of uneasiness crossing his features. He remembered taking MJ to the Fantastic Four, the week after they had cured her of the, "OZ," infection. He remembered hearing how she would probably experience a few more traumatic flashbacks, and how the best way to cope with them was to have regular therapy visits, something that would be next to impossible. Immediately, Peter felt an immense out pouring of sympathy towards MJ in the form of:

"Wait, you had another one of those flashbacks? Oh man, now _I_ feel guilty. I am _so_ sorry."

MJ's features soothed. "Wait a minute. Now _you're_ apologizing? No, no, no. That's not the way it works, you see? Only _I'm_ allowed to apologize and make it up to you, not the other way around. Now come on."

MJ grabbed Peter's hand and began to tug. "Wait, where are we going?"

MJ smiled. "You'll see, but no looking until we get there, alright?"

"Alright," Peter consented.

And with that, they were off.

***

**Washington D.C., On the border between Maryland and Virginia-** Sarah Ryder heard a knock on her door. Located on the top of an office building located in downtown Washington, separated from Congress, the White House, and the other corridors of power that ran the government, Ryder waited a moment before responding with a, "Come in Becky."

Soon enough, her assistant, Becky Rodgers entered with a file folder and said, "Sanderson just got off the phone with Trenton, they say the asset is ready for activation." She then handed the folder to Ryder. "Here's the info on the new asset."

Ryder nodded, and then looked at the folder. It was stamped in red on the front, with a message, reading:

**CLASSIFIED**

**TOXIN**

**No person without the proper authorization is permitted to look at the documents enclosed within. **

**OPERATION CRYPTKEEPER**

Ryder smiled. No matter how long she had been working at the CIA, it had never gotten old, possessing knowledge that few others were allowed to read, much less hold. Sarah Ryder was relatively young, a woman in her late thirties, she conveyed a very attractive appearance, with her smooth black hair, and her horn-rimmed glasses, she had the distinct appearance of Tina Fey, which of course, was a never-ending source of friendly ridicule by her coworkers and friends. A hard worker, she had labored intensely throughout her years at the Central Intelligence Agency, finally attaining the rank of Station Chief in the city of Rabat, the capital of Morocco. There she had enjoyed the challenge of delegating various tasks to the agents, or officers, under her command, doing everything from diplomacy to black-bag jobs with the utmost efficiency. Then, one day while sitting in her office, sending the CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia her daily report, she received a telephone call. The call came from none other than the Director of the CIA, who had given her a unique offer. Specifically, a job offer. The director had inquired as to whether or not she would be interested in running a new, "clandestine peacekeeping operation." One which promised, "new challenges, higher pay, and plenty of resources at your disposal." Ryder of course, agreed promptly. She was immediately flown to D.C., where she learned the name of the operation, a moniker by the name of, "Cryptkeeper."

Operation Cryptkeeper was first developed and created around the same time Norman Osborn and his companions attacked the White House. It was not very much, only a brief outline to, "protect and prevent potential attacks by genetic anomalies." There it sat, slowly percolating throughout the weeks and months and days, until the exposure of the government's top-secret cloning program, which had made multiple copies of Peter Parker, Spider-Man's alter ego, in attempts to perfect a, "Super Soldier." After that fiasco, there were many officials within the CIA who agreed that the time had come to reopen the, "Operation Cryptkeeper," case file. Soon enough, development began, with the decision that Operation Cryptkeeper, would, in effect, "utilize pre-emptive strategies to prevent the creation of another super-soldier in any country besides the U.S., and, if necessary, use lethal means to prevent a possible world war from beginning." And so there it was, the meaning finally becoming clear to Ryder as she slowly began to take control of the operation. "Cryptkeeper," meant using whatever means necessary to prevent the development of another super soldier in another country, or the commencement of a new world war. Essentially by killing a geneticist working on a, "Super Soldier Serum," in another country, they were, in a metaphorical sense, "making him or her carry their secrets and formulae to the grave."

Ryder scanned the document, walking behind her associate, as they made their way to the nerve center of the operation, known for the multitude of high-powered servers and computers, able to track a person and coordinate their field officers half a mile away. _It would appear as though they've made some upgrades_, noted Ryder. The documents, which had listed the numerous advancements of the suit, the photograph and a dossier of the host, and the location of the, "asset," looked promising. The asset's name was Leslie Gesneria, and, judging from her profile, was an accomplished CIA veteran. That relieved Ryder greatly. The problem with the other assets (which were called that to confuse potential eavesdroppers), was that they were all military servicemen or women which, while they were physically capable, were, in Ryder's opinion, "very frustrating and time-consuming to train properly." The reason for this opinion was because in the past, it had taken months for the asset to first bond with the suit, and then another month to train them properly.

In her opinion, soldiers had both good and bad qualities. "On one hand," she would say, "they are loyal and willing to follow orders. On the other hand, they lack certain attributes, such as the ability to speak in multiple languages, blend in, and think independently. Quickly. They can't always have someone yelling in their ear, telling them what to do." Unfortunately, that was only half the battle, as the other half was equally grueling, the bonding between the suit and the host.

Bonding was an incredibly difficult process, and aside from making sure the assets were ready, mentally prepared to have another organism, essentially a parasite, attached to their body for the rest of their life, there was also the lengthy waiting time it took for a suit to attach to the host. Usually it took a month or so. A week if they were lucky. So it made Ryder all the more pleased to learn, from the document, that it would only take a few minutes, twenty to thirty minutes to be exact, for the suit to forever bond to the pre-chosen host. A tremendous timesaver.

"Do you think she has already picked up the package?" Asked Rodgers.

"Count on it." Replied Ryder. "Given the length of time it took for the suit to bond to her, she's probably already got it and is just waiting for us to call."

As Rodgers pondered this for a few moments, Ryder turned her eyes back to the dossier. Gesneria was a field officer, so she probably already was familiarized with self-sufficiency and survival protocols. What more, the suit also held an abundance of unique talents and abilities, an enormous leap from the first couple of prototypes. The suit, or, "Toxin," as it would be called, could form bladed weapons from its body. This in its own right was an achievement, but what made it even better was the fact that the bladed weapons could be detached and thrown, similar to throwing daggers. Another interesting attribute was the suit's ability to manufacture a variety of known poisons, from paralysis agents to lethal ones, all of which could easily be manufactured inside the suit organically, and then deposited into a bladed appendage, and thrown at the target-in-question. This amazed Ryder, and as they entered the computerized nerve center, she did a last-minute check on the rest of the suit. It had the ability to generate clothing, a necessity considering that, since this suit, like all the others, was bonded to a field officer, it would not look very professional if, after an assassination or other such event, a naked person was seen sprinting down back alleys and streets, searching for clothing to wear. The other standard (and new) abilities the suit had were: compliance protocols, hand-to-hand combat sequences, organic web-shooters, the ability to cling to buildings and other such surfaces, evasive techniques, and finally, linguistics, which was a very useful ability, given that it would enable Gesneria to speak in a plethora of languages, perfectly capturing the syntax and tone of a native speaker, allowing her to blend into just about anywhere in the world.

As Rodgers and Ryder entered the command center, Ryder noted that the asset was based in New York City, a necessity in this day and age. While Ryder was no fan of the thugs and mutant terrorists that plagued the country, and indeed the world, she was not stupid either, and knew that if they were to stand a fighting chance, they would have to stay on top of the ball, even if that meant going over S.H.I.E.L.D.'s head.

When Ryder took the job of overseeing and running Operation Cryptkeeper, she knew beyond a mere shadow of doubt that the project was an alternative, if not an affront, to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Ultimates. The fact that there were a number of politicians and governmental agencies that either distrusted or outright hated S.H.I.E.L.D. was no secret. Indeed, the entire, "Clone Saga," was the result of trying to create an alternative, or, "failsafe," to Fury's task force, "The Ultimates." The sponsors of the cloning program were none other than the CIA and the FBI, an incredibly unbelievable alliance, given their intense rivalry between one another. While the majority of the United States government disliked S.H.I.E.L.D., Ryder remained indifferent. She did not know Nick Fury personally, or ever met him or any of his associates. She did not hate him, and was baffled by those that did. In her opinion, Nick Fury's S.H.I.E.L.D. was just another addition to the infrastructure protecting the United States, similar to the Department of Homeland Security, or the Defense Department. A necessity. Unfortunately Ryder, having taken the job to helm Operation Cryptkeeper, was now a directly opposing force to this, "necessity," and as a result, would have to be extremely cautious with the program's proceedings.

Ryder's train of thought was all of a sudden disrupted when Rodgers said to the computer staff, "Alright, listen up people. Director Ryder just got the profile on the last asset. She'll update you on what you need to know, and, well, you know the drill," she said, her hazel eyes flicking to Ryder.

Ryder took that as her cue to begin. "Okay. Here's what we have. The asset, codenamed, "Toxin," is based in New York City. Its activation code is, "helix." Any questions?"

Ryder looked around. As usual, none of the computer staff had any questions, immediately beginning to work after she had finished talking. Ryder then heard one of the three phones in the room ring, which resulted in Rodgers picking up the phone before it could finish the first ring. She nodded her head a couple of times, listening. Then, she hung up and walked over to Ryder.

"We just got a tip-off on Trask. Says he has more copies of the suit, and he's planning on selling them to the highest bidder."

Ryder stared at Rodgers disbelievingly. "Trask? He's got more copies? Did he go public with this?"

Rodgers shook her head. "No, he's got more in common with a recluse than with a politician or a CEO. This came from the inside."

Ryder furrowed her brow and stroked her chin, deep in thought. This was bad. The recovery operation of the Venom suit had gone smoothly and safely, extricating Eddie Brock, the host of the suit, and of course, the suit itself, out of Latveria without so much as a hiccup in the proceedings. But if Trask had more copies…

"Ma'am?"

Ryder looked up into the inquisitive eyes of Rodgers. Immediately, she began forming a plan. Walking to the front of the room, standing in front of a large projector screen, one of three, she said, "Alright everybody, listen up. We just received word that Bolivar Trask has announced, privately, that he has more copies of the original suit and is intending to sell them. Give me everything we've got on Trask on screen one," she said, tapping to the screen behind her, "and keep looking for more. I want four teams on the ground in New York in," she checked her watch, "two hours. So, that's 1400 hours local time. I want two of the teams to be surveillance, and I want them to map out his entire route, from the time he wakes up, to the time he goes to bed. And I also want two grab teams to be waiting on standby, until given the go-ahead."

"Do you want one of the teams to do a sneak-and-peek?"

Ryder looked at the person who had asked the question, an obese man by the name of Waxley. Sneak-and-peek was parlance for a procedure in which a team of agents entered a suspect's house and implanted numerous listening and recording devices, searched through the house looking for any compromising documents, and, if they found anything incriminating, would steal it, or photograph it in order to build onto their case. Essentially, the equivalent of a search warrant without the hassle of having to ask a judge for permission to search someone's house and then waiting for him or her to sign off on it.

"No, no sneak-and-peek," she answered. "Trask is a multi-billionaire, and chances are if we sent a team to his penthouse, or wherever he lives, he'll have a number of security cameras or a security detail at his residence, meaning that it wouldn't take much before there's an army of lawyers at our tail. So basically, keep it distant. Plus," she added, raising an eyebrow," what do you think the chances are that he has several maps showing the exact locations of the duplicate suits?" She then turned around and noticed Rodgers.

"What?"

"I was wondering if you'd like to get the new asset on-board, just in case things go downhill."

Ryder pondered that for a moment. She sincerely doubted that things would go downhill. After all, it was a simple grab-and-go job, nothing to it. But there was always a chance that something could go awry.

"All right, let's do it. Let's give her a little trial run and see how she does."


	6. First Blood

Peter Parker, who was sitting in the Midtown Mall, thoughtfully chewed a portion of his cheeseburger before asking, "Seriously? The mall again? What is with you and the mall?"

MJ gave Peter a look which conveyed mock exasperation. "You know, you've asked me that question ever since we got here. And that was _ten minutes ago_. Maybe _I _should ask _you_ what your deal is with asking me that _same_ question."

"I guess it's just the way I'm wired," Peter said, shrugging.

MJ grinned. "Of course. So tell me, got any plans for tonight?"

"Unfortunately, yes I do. I have to swing by work later this evening, around nine, in order to add some new articles and stuff to the website. Then, I was planning on swinging around the city until twelve, in which case I'll then hit the sack."

MJ sighed. "Well, then I guess I'll just have to stay home tonight, watch a movie, lay around, you know, the boring stuff."

"Are you trying to tell me something?"

"No, it's just that I'll be awfully lonely tonight."

Peter sighed. "Okay, so I'll swing by your house around eleven. How's that?"

"That would be nice, except that I don't want to interfere in your schedule. What I'm trying to say is that I wish I could've been there. You know, to help out last night, and then go to a movie. See, my problem is, I don't feel like I get to do much. Other than participating in the school newscast, my life is beginning to feel a bit," she shrugged.

"What? What's your life beginning to feel like? Is something wrong? Are you having trouble or something? Like with those memories or …?"

"No," MJ said, her eyes looking downward. "It's just that my life is beginning to feel a bit, well, _boring_."

Peter was about to respond to what MJ had just said when a phone started beeping. Immediately he checked his, in case Aunt May was calling him, but his phone was not the source of the noise. He then glanced up at MJ to see if it was hers, and found her staring intently at a cell phone in her hands. After a few moments of scanning the small screen, MJ then closed the cell phone and put it in her pocket. Peter then began to ask her a question before he was cut off.

"Hey, is that a new-"

"I'm sorry Peter, but I have to go. Something came up."

"Wait, what now? First you were saying your life is boring, and then you have to go? What's going on with you?"

MJ did not reply. Instead she stood up, gave Peter a kiss on the cheek, and started to walk towards the exit.

_That was weird._ Thought Peter as he stared, his girlfriend already out of sight. _Wonder what that was all about?_

***

To many people, New York City is the place to be. Home to 8,363,710 people, and the location of numerous historic landmarks, such as the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building, it is no wonder that at least 46 million visitors, both foreign and domestic, arrive each year. Add to the possibility of seeing the Ultimates, the superhuman task force consisting of Captain America, Iron Man, and a few others, and it is hardly surprising that the number of tourists arriving at New York City's shores appears to be increasing. In any case, while many would attest that while the skyline of New York City is indeed astonishing, it pales in comparison to the spectacular view of the city at night.

When the sun sets to the west in New York City, there is a unique afterglow effect that permeates every single building. While the aftereffects of the sunset could be referred to as light pollution, and while it sets, not on a crystal clear lake, but on a fairly disgusting, dingy harbor, there nevertheless is a beauty to the whole affair, as the sun, its rays reflecting off of the numerous skyscrapers, gives the city a jeweled appearance, like a massive, sparkling diamond sitting atop a magnificent crown. Fortunately, the awe-inspiring appearance of the city does not vanish when the last of the suns rays dip below the horizon. Rather, it begins to shine even more brilliantly, lights on every skyscraper and building, even unto the tiniest café, glimmering brightly, a dazzling, and worthy metaphor for the sheer grandiosity of the city.

And it was this sparkling and dazzling gem of a city that Peter Parker, in his guise of Spider-Man, now swung over.

Overall, the evening had progressed rather smoothly. There was not very much he had to do in terms of adding new material to the Daily Bugle's webpage, just a few obituaries and some new advertisements. After that, he went on a fairly rudimentary patrol of the city, something he had thought of creating recently, since he was the self-appointed guardian of New York City, it made sense to-

_Hello, what do we have here? _

Peter's train of thought was all of a sudden arrested by noticing a small white van parked in a side street next to a Bolivar Trask building disgorging several, at least three people who were shouting at a man exiting the building.

_Hmmm…Here we go, nothing too dangerous here. Yep, definitely can take them. So, let's see what's going on. _

With that, he dove down into the side street.

Now, if one were to say that the life of a federal agent was one of near-constant adrenaline, excitement, and thrills, than Clayton Jones would say that they were wrong. A healthy thirty-seven, Jones had worked for the CIA's Special Activity Division for at least twenty years. Born in Springfield, Illinois, he had joined the Marines at age eighteen and served for the required four years before transferring to the CIA. There, he immediately joined the Special Activities Division, or S.A.D., until he again transferred to the Operation Cryptkeeper project. Overall, Jones found Cryptkeeper to perhaps be the most forefront project dealing with the, "genetics arms-race," as it was called. While he was unsure of the complete capabilities and functions of Operation Cryptkeeper, he nevertheless remained positive that the operation was a positive regulating force for the United States, if not the world. Alas, Jones was also familiar with the fact that, no matter how modern or new the project, there almost always was an interminable length of waiting time.

For at least four hours, Jones and his compatriots, Susan Neely, a young twenty-something with auburn hair, and Jason Threadgill, a mountain of a man with cool gray eyes, were sitting in a white, unmarked Mercedes-Benz Sprinter waiting. Their target was Bolivar Trask, and their job was to take him into custody after he left work. The two surveillance teams had done their job. Based on their intelligence, Trask left this exact office every single day at nine 'o' clock PM sharp. Now that his daily routine had been established, Jones' grab team, designated, "Grab Team A," was given the go-ahead to nab him. All they had to do now was wait a little longer and hope that the, "intel," was not faulty.

"Wait, wait a second. Is that him?"

Jones, stationed behind the wheel, peered through the window before answering with a, "Yep, that's him, let's go."

Neely, listening to the earpiece tucked into her right ear, nodded. "We have the green light. Let's go."

The last thing that Jones remembered was he and his team opening the van's doors, running towards Trask shouting, "You, freeze! Put your hands on top of your head and get on the ground!" Then, Jones could have sworn he heard someone else speaking. Someone that, according to him, was saying, "Howdy!" And then, he felt something hit the back of his head, resulting with him striking the pavement, hard, and blacking out.

When he came to, he saw Threadgill lying on the pavement, with several bruises, just like the ones Jones now had. He also noticed that Trask had disappeared and Neely, clutching the left side of her head, was shouting frantically into the microphone hidden in her jacket. She was yelling something about how Trask was gone, and how he was grabbed by, "Spider-Man." After hearing that, Jones stood up, and asked:

"What happened?"

Neely stopped shouting into her microphone and looked up. "Spider-Man came up out of nowhere and grabbed Trask."

"You're kidding."

"Do I look like I'm kidding," said Neely, removing her hand to reveal an ugly black eye, "No, I'm not. He's gone, and he took Trask with him."

Jones was thunderstruck. He had never envisioned anything like this happening. It was just supposed to be a routine, "grab-and-go," operation. Noticing that his earpiece had fallen out, he quickly placed it back into his ear, just in time to hear the voice on the other end say, "Alright Grab Team A, pack up and get out of there. We'll have the asset clean up."

Fairly bewildered, his head throbbing, he turned to Neely and asked, "Wait, we had an asset here too?"

Neely looked at him, but did not appear as confused as he was. "Yes, but that doesn't matter anymore. Right now we have to get out of here, and quickly. Here, help me get Jason back into the van."

Jones, while assisting Neely in getting Threadgill into the backseat of the Sprinter, stared up into the surrounding buildings, and, although he did not know whether or not Spider-Man had actually interfered with their assignment, decided that that was the asset's problem now.

"Oh God!"

Bolivar Trask, suspended high above the New York City skyline, the only thing keeping him from being dashed to his death on the pavement below being the firm grip of Spider-Man, was panicking.

"OhgodOhgodOhgod."

"Oh come on man. I save you from some flunkies, and _this_ is how you thank me? I mean, the _least_ you could do is come up with something else to say, other than, 'Oh God.'"

Trask, were he not being dangled several hundred feet in the air, might have found Spider-Man's attitude to be comical, if not outright annoying. This was not the case, however, and, after a few more leaps and twirls, Trask was safely deposited onto a small apartment building miles away from his plush office.

After Trask had landed, Peter Parker then leaped gracefully onto the rooftop, jogging a bit after landing to decrease his momentum. After he regained his composure, he then glanced over to see how Trask was doing. It turned out, he was still recovering from the aerial flight here, his whole body shaking. After a few moments he decided to give his trembling legs a rest by sitting down. At first, Peter was unsure as to whom exactly he had rescued. He did not have much time to read the situation before it had ended, but he hoped he had not misinterpreted it like so many times in the past. Only now, after taking out whoever was trying to attack him, and fleeing with Trask in tow, did he get a good look and realize that he had just saved the man who had stolen his father's life's work. The man who, based on overall speculation, may have ordered the sabotage of the plane carrying his and Eddie Brock's parents resulting in both their deaths. This of course caused an intense rise of emotion and anger in Peter, but he forced himself to clamp down on it. The last thing he needed was yet another person knowing of his secret identity. Instead, through gritted teeth, he asked, "Are you alright?"

Trask, still sitting, took several deep breaths before saying, "You almost got me killed. Do you realize how reckless you were? I could've _died_. No wonder people think you're a menace!"

That was it. Drawing himself up, Peter looked Trask dead in the eye, (or as best he could, given his mask) and said, "Listen, pal. I _know_ who you are, and frankly, I wish you'd show me a little more respect, given that I just saved your butt from those guys, whoever they were." He paused, turning away from Trask. "So, what I'm _trying to say_ is that I would like, if nothing more, a simple thank you. But, given your attitude, I think that's pretty much impossible, so, how about I just take you home, since you're acting like _such_ a child."

Peter, without turning around, stood staring out at the panoramic vista, awaiting the likely indignant response from Trask. Yet for some reason, none came.

All of a sudden, Peter's spider-sense flared up for a brief instance, and then dissipated. Under normal circumstances, Peter may have paid more attention to this warning, but he was too incensed to care about it.

Peter waited. Still no response from Trask. "Hey, what's the matter, cat got your tongue? I'm trying to have a nice, pleasant conversation with you, is that too much to ask-" he said before stopping, hearing a strange gurgling sound. It sounded like it was coming from behind him. Wondering what was wrong now, Peter spun around to see Trask laying on the roof, clutching his throat, and making a choked gurgling noise, foam building up and spilling out of his mouth.

Then, Trask abruptly stopped rocking and laid still, hands drooping listlessly at his sides.

"Oh God," Peter said, apprehension creeping up into his voice, "No. Not now. Not him. Come on."

He bent down, and checked his pulse. No beating. Trask was dead. Dead. Gone.

_How the hell did this happen?_ Thought Peter, as he looked around Trask, searching for the cause of death. Then, he saw it. On the back of Trask's neck, near the top of his spinal cord, Peter noticed a small, almost indiscernible sliver of something. It appeared organic, and the colors of it were an odd combination of _purple and black_.


	7. Guilt

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C.-** Sarah Ryder and her associate, Becky Rodgers stood facing screen one, the biggest of the three, and stared at the photo of Bolivar Trask which was displayed on the screen with a big, "Eliminated," stamp across the picture. If the process of killing a potential threat to national security were not so cold and impersonal, Ryder would have allowed herself a small smile. But this was not the case. So, turning to her assistant, she said, "Tell all teams to pull back to headquarters for briefing, and as soon as the asset codes in, tell her good job, and tell her she gets a few days rest."

Rodgers nodded obediently. Nothing had to be said. Now that her aide was wrapping up the assignment, Ryder retired to her room, where after filing a report; she would be able to return to her sparse, but accommodating townhouse where she would get a much-needed night's rest.

***

**New York City, New York-** Peter Parker crouched on the wall of a New York City hospital, his uncanny ability to cling to walls being the only reason he had not fallen, and watched as at least two New York City police squad cars pulled up to the hospital. Immediately after the first squad car stopped, two police officers exited. One of them, wearing a long, brown trench coat, looked up at Peter and beckoned him down. Peter recognized the officer's face instantly. The police officer's name was Frank Quaid, and he was not a police officer, but a police captain.

Police Captain Frank Quaid had so far helped Spider-Man on two occasions. On the first occasion, Peter had been captured by Herman Schultz, also known as, "the Shocker," given his choice weapon being two extremely powerful vibration units. In any case, Quaid and his team had come just in time, preventing Schultz from possibly committing murder. On the other occasion, which Peter did not know about, Quaid had assisted in the arrest of the notorious Kingpin, also known as Wilson Fisk, thanks to the help of the enigmatic Moon Knight. The relationship, however, was not nearly as one-sided as it may have seemed. Peter had also assisted Quaid, specifically in a case involving several bank robberies, committed by a new and ultimately frightening figure known only as, "Mysterio." But as far as their relationship went, Quaid relied on Peter in dealing with criminals with far more deadly and unnatural abilities than that of a common crook, and Peter treated Quaid with the same level of respect and deference that he did for the former Police Captain Jeanne De Wolfe, fairly certain that he was also not in the Kingpin's employ.

"Come on down from there kid. I want to talk to you."

Peter did not respond to Quaid but instead, merely jumped from his perch, and listlessly landed on the ground. "What is it?" he asked in a dreary monotone. "Did you come to arrest me?"

Quaid smirked, and then said, "No, no. That's not why I came by here. Actually, I wanted you to tell me the events leading up to the death of Bolivar Trask, if that _is_ really him."

Peter looked up at him. "Why wouldn't he be the real Trask? Is there something I don't know about?"

Quaid did not stare at Peter, but instead, looked off into the distance, deep in thought. "Let's just say that he's difficult to pin down. Several times in the past he was believed to have been deceased, only to pop up again on the radar, sort of like right now. Anyways, while we and almost any other law enforcement agency in this country _haven't_ pinned him down for any shady back-room deals, word on the street is he's crooked."

Peter did not say anything, but knew full well that Trask was a shady character, given the possibility that he may have been responsible for his and Eddie Brock's parent's deaths. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Talk. I just want you to tell me everything. From the time you grabbed him to the time you dropped him off here," he said, gesturing towards the hospital. "Tell me everything."

So Peter did. He told Quaid everything, from the moment he noticed the two men (and one woman) racing towards Trask, to his final moments, when Trask had lain on the roof of the apartment building gurgling, with that thing (or whatever it was) sticking out of the back of his neck. When he finished, he glanced up at Quaid, who responded with a, "That's one helluva story."

"Yeah well, there's really not that much to it."

"Tell me, did the assailants have any sort of identification on them? Any sort of way that you could tell who they were, or who they might've been working for?"

"I didn't think to check. Plus, you know, I was just trying to do the right thing, which meant getting Trask out of there. I didn't think it was a good idea to sit around and have a chat. Why?"

"No reason. It's just that it might've helped if you knew who you were dealing with."

For some reason, that particular comment ignited a fire within Peter. Looking up at Quaid, he asked, his voice thick with anger, "_Excuse me?_ If memory serves, _I _was the one fighting the bad guys, not _you_. Now, are you telling me that _I_ did a lousy job? Well, let me tell _you_ something. _I_ did the best I could while _you_-"

"That's not what I'm getting at," Quaid said, interrupting him. "What I'm trying to say is that something's not right. It smells fishy, the whole thing. I mean, you take out those three guys-"

"Girl."

"What?"

"It was a girl. One of them was a girl."

"Whatever," Quaid said, brushing him off. "Look, my point is this. You're swinging by, minding your own business, when all of a sudden, you see three guys-er, _two guys_ and onegirl trying to take Trask out. You intervene, and snatch Trask. Then, several minutes later, you dump Trask onto a building, where he then _dies_. Not from a bomb, not from a bullet wound, but from _something else_. So, what do you think the chances are that some new weirdo just _happened_ to come by where you and Trask were and just _happened_ to decide to kill off Trask? No, too convenient. In my opinion, whatever killed Trask was somehow linked to the three that jumped out of the van on Trask's parking lot."

"Whoa, wait. So you're saying they're _connected_?"

Quaid nodded. "That's right."

"Captain!"

Both Quaid and Peter turned at the sight of an officer jogging towards them. When the officer reached them, he said, "I think you better come inside Lieutenant, something's up."

Quaid raised an eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

"I'm not entirely sure. They just told me to come over and get you, and _you_," he said, pointing towards Peter.

"Wait, why do you need him?" Asked Quaid, pointing his thumb at Peter.

"I told you Captain, I'm not sure. They just told me to get both of you and that there are some questions they need you to answer."

"Alright," Quaid said. "Come on kid, let's see what's up."

The three of them entered the hospital. As usual, the sight of Spider-Man drew lots of gasps and cell phone cameras. Eventually, the three of them, the officer, Quaid, and Spider-Man reached the third floor, where, after passing through two officers guarding the door, they reached the hospital room where Trask's body should have laid. Except that it was not there.

Peter was about to ask where the body was when a doctor looked up from a clipboard and said, "Hello. My name is Doctor Steven Jacoby."

"Police Captain Frank Quaid," Quaid said, making the formal introduction.

Jacoby cast a warm smile towards Quaid but kept his eyes trained towards Peter. "Nice to meet you Captain, but actually, I needed some answers from _him_."

"Such as?" Peter queried.

"Well, when you brought him to us, we weren't sure what to do. So, we first looked for what you said to look for, mainly, that organic shard you said was lodged in his neck."

"Yeah?"

"Well, we searched for it, but, we didn't find any such shard, or for that matter, any other sort of irregular object or scarring."

"WHAT!"

"I'm sorry, but after running a few tests, it was determined that he died from a heat attack."

Peter was bewildered. It didn't make any sense. "How is this possible? I mean, I _saw_ the guy die. I know what happened. He was gurgling, and foaming, and he had this _thing_ sticking out of his neck. You can't possibly be telling me he died of a heart attack."

"I'm sorry," said the doctor, "but that's what the results came back as."

"Where's the body?"

We had to move it. After we determined the cause of death it was shipped off to the morgue."

"You've got to be kidding me."

The doctor shook his head.

_What the hell is going on_? Thought Peter. It didn't make any sense. Peter knew that his eyes were not playing a trick on him; he had seen Trask die, gurgling and foaming at the mouth. While Peter was no cardiologist, he was fairly certain that Trask had not experienced a heart attack, given that he had watched his Aunt suffer through one. Moreover, Peter was now concerned that he was rapidly losing credibility with the police and that _he_ would end up being the prime suspect for causing Trask's death.

After answering a few of Jacoby's questions, Quaid then stepped back outside where he found Spider-Man in a crouching position on the wall. Ambling over, he asked, "Something wrong?"

Peter, whose face was buried in his arms responded with a, "Are you serious? _Of course_ something's wrong. I wasn't hallucinating, I saw him die. He died _after_ we landed, not _before_. I mean, am I crazy, or what?"

"I'm not sure," said Quaid, "but I do know this, most of my guys now think _you're_ responsible for Trask's death."

"Great. Yay for me. Whoop-de-doo."

"I, however, have other doubts."

Peter's head shot up quickly. "You do?"

Quaid nodded. "Yep. Pretty certain that it was someone else."

"So what do we do now?"

A squad car pulled up. "_Me?_ I'm not doing anything. _You're_ the one who has to do something."

"Wait, what? Why me?"

Frank Quaid walked up to the squad car, pulled open the passenger door, and said, "You feel guilty about what happened tonight?"

"Yes."

"Then do something about it. Find out who did this, who's responsible, and get them."

"What about you?"

"Me? I'll be around. If you find something, a lead, get it to me, pronto. Other than that, it should be obvious that whatever took out Trask is way out my league. But _you_ have what it takes. You have the power, and the _courage_ to deal with whatever it is that's out there. So I suggest that you get cracking."

And with that, he entered the car and left.

***

**Trenton, New Jersey-** Sitting at his kitchen table, Carl Redfern stared at the unopened bottle of champagne, a gift from his superior, Dr. Mendel Stromm, for having successfully completed the four, "bio-weapon," suits. _But I didn't really complete them, did I_? He thought to himself. _We have an unlicensed, uncompleted genetic mutation out there,_ he thought to himself. He had been repeating those words for several hours now, ever since he first noticed the suit was missing and had consulted with Stromm. To say that his supervisor acted recklessly was an understatement. But ultimately, Redfern knew the responsibility lay with him. He was the one who agreed to work on the project, he was the one who oversaw the creation of the various suits, and he was the one who _called_ the operation's headquarters and told them that the final specimen was ready to go. Ultimately, it was Redfern's call which resulted in the activation of the final suit, and in the end, it was this call that rested heavily on his conscience.

_Oh God, what did I do, what did I do, what did I do?_

But no answer came. He already knew what he did.

_I have to fix this. But how? I can't just call the project's headquarters and tell them I screwed up. Not now. What to do, what to do, what to do-_

While he was thinking, his eyes drifted over and rested on a copy of the _The Times_, one of Trenton's newspapers. All of a sudden, an idea formed in his head. _I can fix this_, he thought. _I can do this_.

Immediately, he started to get his priorities in order. _I'll head down to the Octagon. Leave a message saying I'm going on a weeklong vacation. Stromm will believe it. He'll think I'm taking a rest, a vacation. A chance to, "unwind." Yes, yes, this will be perfect. _He then checked his watch, and exited his house, making sure to lock the door before he got into his car.

Overall, Redfern's whole demeanor had changed. No longer was he sullen or moody. Now he felt ebullient, elated. He felt as though a weight had been lifted off of his chest. He could breathe again.

_Writer's Note: Greetings one and all. First of all, a big shout-out to DarkSamuraiX1999. You have become my favorite reader. Now I apologize for being blunt but I see no other alternative. I would really like to have some more reviews. I mean, I can check my story traffic, and I know I am getting visitors. So please, would it kill you to leave a review? If I have offended somebody, please, by all means, contact me so that I may make amends. Other than that, I implore you to leave a review, as I need all the constructive criticism and/or praise I can get. Anyways, that's all for now, and I hope to have a new chapter set soon. _


	8. Whistleblower

Peter Parker, sitting within his cubicle in the _Daily Bugle_, was diligently typing on his computer, running several searches through the newspaper's archives, when his phone began to ring. Immediately, he picked it up.

"This is Peter Parker of the _Daily Bugle's_ web services, how may I help you?"

"Hey you, I missed you last night."

Peter stopped at the sound of that voice. "Oh, sorry MJ. I had a rough night last night."

"What happened?"

Peter wheeled himself partially out of his cubicle, looking left and right to make sure no one was within earshot. Satisfied that no one could overhear, he said, his voice quiet, "someone died."

MJ, comfortably lying on her bed in her room with her diary, shot up in an instant. "Wait, what? Someone died?! Who?"

"Trask," Peter said with a sigh.

"Who?"

"Trask. Bolivar Trask. You know, he's that guy who _used_ to run Trask Industries? Him."

MJ paused for a moment, thinking contemplatively before saying, "You know, you can't blame yourself for that. It wasn't your fault."

"I know, I know. It's just that, I feel guilty. I tried hard to save him, and yet he still died, even though he was the reason my Dad is dead."

"Wait a minute," MJ said, sitting upright now, "you mean this Trask person killed your father?"

"I think so," responded Peter, "and my mother too. And yet I still tried to save him, and came up empty. Ugh. Sometimes I just feel like giving up."

"Again? Come on Peter, I _know_ you. I _know_ you can do better than this. Stop giving in to this self-pity."

"Great."

"What?"

"Now, on top of everything else, I have to deal with a therapist grilling me."

"Oh, come on, I'm trying to help you, not make you feel worse."

"I know," Peter said, allowing himself to smile a bit, "Thanks."

MJ said nothing, but instead, grinned sheepishly. Despite the fact that it might get tiring to some to provide constant support to someone who seemed to always reside in the depths of self-pity, MJ never felt fatigued. Instead, she felt better than before. So, now that she had once again consoled Peter, she then delicately switched topics, asking, "Now, what do you say we angle for a movie or something tonight?"

"I'm sorry MJ, but I can't."

"What? Why not? Do you have to, 'work?'"

Peter sighed. MJ was not going to be pleased. He really hated doing this to her, but like Uncle Ben told him, "With great power comes great responsibility." And since responsibility meant trying to figure out _why_ Trask was killed, Peter had to turn MJ down. So, with that thought, he forged onward, saying, "No, not yet. I'm at the _Bugle_ right now, trying to find some more on Trask, and figure out why someone, hypothetically speaking, would want him dead."

"The _Bugle's_ site is _that_ informative?"

"Well, it's not the website, so much as the archives, which ordinary citizens such as you are not allowed to access."

"Har, Har," MJ replied, "So what did you find?"

"Well, as it turns out, a lot. This guy had so many enemies it was crazy, I can't even-"

"Peter!"

Peter spun around at the sound of that voice. It was Ben Urich. Star reporter for the _Daily Bugle_. The one who wrote those series of articles that helped take down the Kingpin, with evidence that _**he**_, Peter Parker, helped provide, using methods that J. Jonah Jameson, the editor-in-chief of the _Bugle_, would not have approved of. Specifically, by using his guise of Spider-Man to obtain hard evidence against the Kingpin in the form of video tapes. This, however, was not the only time he had helped Urich out. Another moment was several months ago, where Urich, doing a rather controversial story regarding vampires, was bitten by his source, as she herself had _become_ a vampire, resulting in a possible infection. Fortunately, with the aid of a renegade vampire calling himself Morbius, Urich was saved, and now no trace of vampirism remained. Now Urich stood at the entrance to Peter's cubicle, with a genial smile playing across his face.

"Yes?"

"Got a minute?"

"Uh, yeah, hold on a second," he said, turning back towards his conversation with MJ. "Uh, listen Mary, I gotta go."

"No prob. See you tomorrow?"

"Count on it." And then, he hung up.

"Alright kid, grab your jacket, we're going out on an assignment," Urich said, jerking his thumb towards the door.

"Really?"

"Yep. Consider this an apology for last time. You know, that Doctor Strange interview?"

"Oh, yeah, don't worry about it. It's okay."

"Good. Now come on, grab your jacket, and let's go."

Peter did as he was told, and soon they were both sitting in a taxi, heading up towards Fifth. After they both got comfortable, Urich turned towards Peter, and said, "Alright, so listen, it wasn't easy, but here's what's going on. We're headed downtown to meet what we call in the news biz, an, 'unidentified source.' You got that?"

"Oh yeah, sure. You're talking about the people who get interviewed with a screen in front of them, or the lights out around their head, right?"

"Exactly. So, like I was saying, it wasn't easy to convince Jonah to let me take you on this particular assignment, but you're a bright kid, and I think if you're going to end up being a reporter full-time, than you need experience with all sorts of different news stories. Got it?"

"Yep," Peter replied, euphoric. He loved Urich's work, and the fact that he was willing to have Peter accompany him? It was just too good to be true. "So what do you want me to do?"

"Just stay in the background, listen, and learn. Even _I'm_ not entirely certain if this guy is credible, given that he told me so little."

"What did he say?"

"Like I said, not much. It was all very vague. First he asks if I'm Ben Urich, the reporter who, 'took down the Kingpin,' and then he says he wants to share something with me. He doesn't go into specifics, but he tells me that it has something to do with the government, and a, 'black-ops program.' I don't know, in my opinion, this may just be another crackpot paranoid about the government."

"Did he say where we could meet him?"

"The _Starbucks _at Church Street and Murray_._"

The taxi cab continued to drive through the multiple thoroughfares and avenues, weaving in and out of traffic lanes. While the cab driver continued to drive, Peter was lost in thought. Getting to follow Ben Urich on assignment! An unidentified source! Peter still could not believe it. Yet despite all of his silent cheers and thoughts, he still retained a small trace of apprehension. After all, the last time he had tagged along with Urich for an assignment, he had gotten trapped in a dream-world, where he experienced nightmare after nightmare. Despite his reservations, Peter still felt that nothing could go wrong.

Meanwhile, Urich, lost in his own train of thought, was staring out the window, when all of a sudden, he was struck by the realization that they had not moved for at least five minutes. "Oh, great. What is this, a traffic jam? Come on kid, we're walking."

So Urich and Peter grabbed their belongings, paid the cab driver, and set off, not realizing that they were being followed…

***

**The Triskelion, New York City, New York- **Acting Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Carol Danvers was sitting in the War Room of the Triskelion, poring over numerous structural reports, dossiers, and other papers when one of her lieutenants, a man by the name of Channing approached her.

"Yes?" She inquired, without taking her eyes off of the documents.

"We just picked something up from one of our wiretaps into the _Daily Bugle's_ telephone lines. Ordinarily, we wouldn't have told you this, but this guy's a persistent caller. Already he's called twice."

"The same person?"

Channing nodded. "The first time he called, the reporter he wanted to talk to wasn't there, so he called a second time."

Danvers sighed. "This better be important. I don't need to hear another rant about how the government is planning on supporting mutants in their bid for global domination."

"Uh, no ma'am. It's-I think you better go take a look.

Danvers reluctantly got out of her desk and followed Channing. Already she was having second thoughts about this, and it had not even entered its third month.

After the rather ugly incident involving Norman Osborn, where he managed to escape the Triskelion, while practically leveling it in the process, Danvers had thus decided it wise to keep daily tabs on Peter Parker, given his propensity for attention by genetically altered sociopaths and the like. Add to the fact that Omega Red, the mercenary mutant-for-hire that had _also_ stormed into the _Bugle's _offices, in an attempt to regain his reputation, and it began to just seem like common sense to have eyes and ears tuned into the newspaper's offices, where Parker worked part-time.

At least, that was _before_ the plan had actually been implemented, and now that it was in effect, she was regretting it deeply. The was because she had failed to take into account the fact that the editor-in-chief, J. Jonah Jameson, had a very deliberate, and constant policy of publicly harassing and branding Spider-Man as a mutant menace, as well as almost any other genetic abnormality, and mutant, which meant that he was willing to publish any story, no matter how preposterous it sounded. This resulted in a plethora of calls from fearful people, deathly afraid of all of the superhuman beings that had been popping up recently, and as a result, felt it necessary to divulge that information to anyone who would listen.

So, Carol Danvers, accompanied by Channing, made their way to one of the myriad computer screens, where Danvers was then given a pair of headphones, and told to listen in to the phone conversation.

"So who's the conversation between?"

"One of the people we could identify as Benjamin Urich, a reporter for the _Daily Bugle_. The other person, unfortunately, we have not been able to identify."

"What do you mean? Can't you just trace the phone back to his house?"

"He's using a payphone."

"Where?"

The technician typed a few commands into the computer console, waited a moment, and then said, "Grand Central Station."

"Do we have anyone there?"

"Negative."

Danvers sighed. She could not worry about who the caller was anymore. Probably best to determine whether or not he (or she) constituted as a potential security threat. "Let me hear the transcript."

The technician said nothing; instead, she just spun around in her chair and tapped a few more commands into the computer. A couple of seconds later, Danvers began to hear the first part of the telephone conversation.

_"This is-"_

_"Is this Ben Urich, of the Daily Bugle?" _

_"Uh, yes."_

_"The one who took down the Kingpin?" _

_"Listen pal, this phone line is for business __only__, so if you-"_

_"I've got something to tell you, a story." _

_"What kind of story?" _

_"I can't go into specifics. Not here. I need to meet with you in person, understand?" _

_"Um, no problem. If I can just have your name…"_

_"Sorry, but I can't tell you that over the phone. Meet me at…Starbucks." _

_"Which one?" _

_"How about…the one at Church Street and Murray. Got that?" _

_"Uh, sure. But it would help if you could at least give me a small briefing of what your, 'story,' is. I mean I can't go running all over town just because someone has a hunch-"_

The voice on the other end sighed._ "I can't go into __too__ many details here. Let's just say it involves a government black-ops program, and that you'd be doing a great service in helping me expose it to the public." _

_"Alright, what time?"_

There was a short pause. _"Fifteen minutes. Today. Don't show up late." _

He hung up.

Danvers removed the headphones, and turned to Channing.

"What do you think?"

"I'm not sure. The person on the other end sounded tense, like he was being followed or something."

"That's what I thought."

"So, what are you thinking?"

"It's your call ma'am."

Danvers removed her trademark sunglasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Based on the recording, it sounded as though there should not be much cause for concern. A nobody, merely looking for his fifteen minutes of fame. On the other hand, the way he carried the conversation, elusive, quickly, it definitely seemed as though he had something to hide. Perhaps-

"Ma'am?"

Danvers' train of thought was suddenly interrupted by Channing, who was looking at her questioningly. "Alright, here's what I think, until we get more information, let's treat this guy as a low-level risk. Just put one team on Parker and Urich. When they get to their destination and meet the source, have the team take a picture, so then we can scan it here to determine if this guy is serious or not."

"Done," said Channing, as he left, in order to make the preparations.

Danvers then made her way back to the desk, pausing to stare out the massive window, showing the massive and breath-taking view of the New York City skyline. This view, however, was lost on Danvers, as her mind was on other things. Specifically, the fact that whatever the reason for that phone call, Danvers hoped it was nothing to worry about.

***

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. - **Sarah Ryder had entered the Cryptkeeper headquarters around eight 'o' clock on a Sunday morning, anticipating another routine day. Or rather, that's what she _would have_ liked to have happen, if it were not for a phone call around four-thirty. The call had come on her cell phone, from Rodgers, informing her that something had come up rather unexpectedly. So, Ryder had gotten dressed, and made her way to the headquarters, wondering what she would have to deal with today.

After arriving at the entrance, she was immediately escorted by Rodgers to the eighth floor, where the operation was based, and on their upward trip, was briefed on the issue at hand.

"So what do we have?"

"Well, for starters, we managed to salvage what was left of the Trask job. We grabbed Toomes and got him to talk."

"Who's he?"

"Toomes? Head advisor in Trask's science department. We figured that he would be one who knew where the copies where. Aside from Trask, that is."

"So we have the rest of the suits?"

"Just have to send several teams to the various buildings where the suits are stored. But yeah, we have them."

"I assume they're in his various warehouses and the like?"

"Yes. And don't worry about search warrants. We already secured help from local law enforcement, so we're all set. In a few moments, all of the spare suits will be transferred to DARPA, and we won't have to worry about any overseas transactions."

"Excellent." Ryder said.

The conversation continued, up until they reached the eighth floor, upon which they disembarked the elevator and made their way to the computerized, "nerve center," of the headquarters. Rodgers made her way to screen one and pointed at someone's records which were currently being displayed up on the board. The photograph was of a young man, probably in his early thirties or late twenties, who had a bright red head of hair, which was clipped very short. The name projected on the screen read, "Charles Andrew Redfern." After peering at the name and photograph, Ryder then looked at her subordinate. Immediately, Rodgers began to brief Ryder.

"At approximately 0200 hours, Mr. Redfern was seen entering the Octagon offices, the location where we have been conducting tests and receiving the various new suits for our operatives. A few hours later, or more specifically, at 0300 hours, Redfern purchased a one-way ticket to New York City, arriving at Grand Central Station around 0500 hours. Then he-"

"Do we have visual confirmation on this?" Interrupted Ryder.

"Yes ma'am. We got into the Grand Central Station records and its CCTV network, and we have a shot of Redfern exiting the train at 0500 hours, wearing the same clothing that he was wearing when he entered the Octagon," Rodgers replied, directing Ryder's attention to screen two, which showed CCTV footage of a man Ryder could make out as Redfern exiting one of arrival gates, holding an attaché case.

"And then what?"

"Well, he then went over to the payphone area and made a phone call."

"To whom?"

"Well," Rodgers said, glancing through several documents held in her hands, "based on this transcript, Redfern spoke to the offices of a New York newspaper called the _Daily Bugle_."

Rodgers handed the transcript to Ryder, who quickly scanned through it to get the gist of the conversation. After quickly glancing through the transcript, she then looked up at Rodgers, puzzled. "It looks like Redfern didn't get in contact with whoever he wanted to talk to."

"Not on the first try," said Rodgers, "but he called again about later, and managed to get in contact with a reporter by the name of Benjamin Urich."

"Where did he go next?"

Rodgers looked at her superior. "The reporter?"

Ryder shook her head. "Redfern. Where did _Redfern_ go after finishing his phone call?"

Rodgers looked down at the ground. "Uh, we actually lost him in the morning commute."

"Christ," Ryder said, rubbing her forehead. "Well, at least we have his destination, right?"

"Yes. It's right there in the transcript," she said, pointing to the documents held in Ryder's hands. "A _Starbucks_ at Church Street and Murray."

Ryder looked down at the record again, combing through to find the part of dialogue that Rodgers was referring to. After locating it and reading it, she then looked back up at Rodgers and asked, "I assume we've got a team on site?"

Rodgers nodded. "Ever since he made contact with Urich. Also, we put a tail on Urich, just in case there's a change in plans."

Ryder leafed through the documents again. A geneticist who checks into the Octagon at two 'o' clock in the morning? It didn't check out. She stared up at the screen with Redfern's photograph and personal records on it. Based on the documentation, it would seem that he was a registered government official. He was registered as having worked for the Octagon ever since graduating MIT, and he was the one who phoned in whenever a new specimen was ready for bonding. So, why did he go to the Octagon and then after going there, immediately purchase a train ticket to New York City? She turned to Rodgers.

"Where did we get this transcript?" She said, holding it aloft.

"We got it from S.H.I.E.L.D.," Rodgers said, "but they weren't able to identify Redfern."

"Why's that?"

"Because Redfern is part of DARPA, which, in turn, is also part of the Cryptkeeper operation, and technically, we don't exist. Plus," she added, "DARPA is running Octagon, which ties into us, which means they can't reveal their employment records."

"But they just passed this information onto us?"

"No. It was done through proxy. It was given to a Station Chief, given how irrelevant S.H.I.E.L.D. thought it was, and, in turn, the Station Chief passed it on to us."

"I see," Ryder said, "So, let's see what we have here exactly. We've got a geneticist who's _supposed_ to be working for us, but instead, jumped ship and ran to New York."

"Possibly."

"And what more, there's also a _strong_ possibility that he stole classified documents from the Octagon, and that he's planning to share those classified documents with a reporter, thus endangering our program."

"Yes."

"Shit. Just what we need, a whistleblower on our hands."

"Seems like it."

Ryder all of a sudden got very focused. She wasn't one to panic. She had not come all this way just to get indicted by a now former employee who had a change of heart with what he was doing. "The team, are we in contact with them?"

Rodgers nodded. "Yes. We have both of them in constant communication with us."

"Good. Keep in contact with them. In the meantime, add at least two more teams to the ones we already have onsite."

"Wait, _two more_? That's four teams, including the tail. You sure you need this many people?"

"Yes. I don't want anymore screw-ups. Especially after what happened with Trask. As of this moment, Redfern now constitutes as a national security risk, and I don't want to lose him again." She paused. "And put the asset on standby, just in case."

"Um, but you said the asset could get some time off-"

"I'm aware of that," Ryder said, staring at the CCTV footage of Redfern walking through Grand Central, "but that was _before_ this little slip-up occurred. Like I said, I don't want any more slip-ups, so as a result, I'm going to expend all of the resources on this little, 'slip-up.' Got it?"

Rodgers nodded.

"Good," Ryder said, "then let's get started."

_Hey-ho. Sorry for this note, it will hopefully be the last. Anyways, sorry for the long wait, and sorry for the last note. Hope you enjoy this chapter. Anyways, this may be the last chapter I will be able to publish, as school's starting soon, which will __severely__ cut down on the amount of time I have to write. But don't worry, I do plan on writing more in the future. Anyways, please R&R, and enjoy!_


	9. Setup

**New York City, New York- **Peter parker's spider-sense first flared up when they turned the corner from Park Place onto Church Street. _Whoa! What was that? _His eyes immediately began to dart around, scanning his surroundings, looking for any signs of danger, anything out of the ordinary, anything which would constitute a threat to him or Urich.

The problem with Peter's spider-sense was this: it was not very accurate. While it would in fact alert him to any sort of danger, it would not specify where the threat would be located, or who would be responsible for creating the menace. Instead, it merely shot up and continued to buzz him until whomever, or _whatever_ it was, revealed themselves, and even then it would not stop. Needless to say, it became quite aggravating for Peter to endure, day after day, when all of a sudden his spider-sense would flare up, and continue to irritate him until the threat was safely neutralized. And today was one of those instances.

Another problem with the current spider-sense buzz was how he was not alone, meaning that he could not quickly dart into an alleyway and rapidly change into his costume for greater mobility. Doing so would look incredibly suspicious, given how he was with Urich. In any case, Peter simply attempted to ignore the continuous throbbing from his early-warning radar, and proceeded to methodically look around him and Urich, seeing if there was anything which may appear suspicious, not realizing that the main source of his buzzing was coming from several small-arms being carried in shoulder holsters, worn by agents of both S.H.I.E.L.D. and Operation Cryptkeeper, neither realizing that the other was present.

* * *

Carl Redfern, meanwhile, was seated inside a taxicab, which he instructed to pull up to the curb at Warren Street and Church, unsure of what to do next. Already, he came to the conclusion that it was pretty unwise to have called Urich's office line, given how dangerous the data he had in his attaché case was. _To think that I was just going to walk up to him and have a pleasant conversation, hand him top-secret documents, and say, 'Have a nice day?' What was I thinking?_

After he had called Urich, he then hailed a cab and proceeded straight to the destination, before realizing what a foolish plan this was. The chance that he was being setup was very probable. After he had figured out that he may have been monitored on the phone line, and even trailed to the _Starbucks_, he instructed the cab driver to take numerous twists and turns, before depositing him at the _Macy's _on West 34th Street. There, he purchased a new jacket, pants, and a dress shirt, bundling up the older ones in a _Macy's_ bag before throwing them into a garbage bin outside the store. After that, he had done more twists and turns, eventually calling another cab, which he was now sitting inside of, waiting. Unfortunately, Redfern was now out of ideas. While it may have seemed foolish, over-the-top, and paranoid to go through numerous twists and turns, and spend a small fortune on taxi rides and new clothing, Redfern considered it absolutely necessary. While he may not have had a whole lot of experience in the espionage department, he was pretty sure that there were some tactics which he thought would have been employed to monitor him. Now the only question would be how to deliver the information he had rapidly gathered from his office to Urich. So, far, no brilliant ideas had sprung up out of his consciousness.

At first he thought of having the cab pull up to the _Starbucks_, right before Urich entered. Then, he would try to convince Urich to get into the cab, where they would meet somewhere else. Redfern had nixed the idea as soon as he thought of it, however, given that there might be agents planted in front of the store, which would mean an easy grab for them. After some more contemplation, he had then thought of entering the building, and merely passing the documents onto Urich, before quickly leaving. Regrettably, this plan was also rejected, given how the likelihood of having agents _inside_ the _Starbucks_ was just as probable as having them outside of the building. After some more thought, Redfern determined that the best possible course of action would be to intercept Urich _before_ he got to the café, and from there, pass off the documents. So, after he had paid the cab driver, he then stepped out, and began to trot rapidly to the _Starbucks_, intending to walk around the back of the building, where he would hopefully be able to lure him into the back alley, and then take a few rapid twists and turns, before being able to talk to him in peace.

Upon approaching the _Starbuck's_, he immediately realized that this plan was as bad as the other two. Panic had merely made him think that it was a superb idea, when in fact it was the complete opposite. His first problem was the fact that he had little to no idea how Urich would arrive, whether it would be by taxi, bus, or by merely walking. This would complicate his ability to intercept Urich. Secondly, despite his disguise, he knew that it would be for naught, given that his red hair was a dead giveaway. _If only I had bought a hat!_ He thought, frustrated at his lack of foresight. _Now what am I going to do?_ He spun around to see if his cab was still available, but to no avail. A man who appeared to be in his mid-fifties was already seated in the back, and the cab had already pulled away from the curb. _Now what? _He thought. _Think, think, think! _Eventually, he resolved to hang around the back of the building, and merely wait for Urich to leave. From there, he would tail him back to the _Bugle_ offices, where he would hand over the documents and tell him everything. To Redfern, this seemed like the best plan he had had all day.

* * *

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C.- **While a flurry of exchanges between the field agents and the Cryptkeeper headquarters were made, Sarah Ryder stared intently at the live footage of the _Starbucks_ café, provided by one of the agents who were onsite. The footage was one of three, each of them being displayed on their three projector screens. So far, there was no sign whatsoever of Redfern. While one of the computer analysts reported seeing a figure that seemed to match Redfern's profile, that soon turned out to be a dud. While Ryder was staring intently at the screens, Becky Rodgers quickly approached her, an earpiece tucked within her left ear.

"Yes?"

"We got a reply from the asset, should be arriving soon."

"We have an ETA?"

"Five, maybe ten minutes, at most."

"Excellent. Now, how much time before Urich and Redfern rendezvous?"

Becky, who had a copy of the phone transcript from earlier in the day, flipped through it before saying, "Five minutes, give or take."

"Alright," was Ryder's reply, "now all we have to do is wait it out, and hope we don't need the asset for this one."

"You don't think this will spook them?" Asked Rodgers, glancing at her superior.

Ryder considered that. She knew full well that Redfern was not some sort of novice, but an experienced federal employee. While she was aware of that, she also knew that he was a scientist, not a man who regularly participated in field work, live-fire exercises, or stakeouts. Rather, his forte was in the laboratory, not in some foreign country, blending in, or within the CIA headquarters, coordinating teams halfway around the globe. Essentially, Ryder was fairly confident that the four teams would blend in brilliantly, not raising even the slightest suspicion. Yet at the same time, she was aware that panic might play a role in Redfern's decision-making process, something which, with the right amount of luck, would-

"Ma'am! We've got Urich onsite!"

Ryder quickly spun around, facing the computer technician. "Put it up on screen one, and tell me when the asset arrives."

The technician complied, and soon enough, everyone in the room was looking at the screen, watching as Urich and another person, a kid, judging from the height difference, entered the café.

"Who's the kid with him?" Asked Rodgers.

"No idea." Replied Ryder, scanning the screen, seeing if Redfern was near.

"Ma'am?"

Ryder's eyes flicked off from the screen, glancing towards the technician who reported seeing Urich. "Yes?"

"Do you want the tail to bleed off, or stick with him?"

Ryder became pensive for a moment, considering the options. Eventually, she said, "Yes. Keep the tail on Urich until Redfern arrives. Then, we grab both of them."

"Wait, we're going to grab the kid too? Are you insane-"

"No, we're not," Ryder said, cutting her off, "now how much time until Redfern arrives?"

Rodgers glanced at her wristwatch. "ETA is two minutes and counting."

Ryder began to think through what was happening. Two more minutes. Surely Redfern would be arriving soon. He better. Yet at the same time, Ryder was also considering what to do next if Redfern failed to materialize, if he was "spooked" as Rodgers said. The only real way to continue this would be to grab Urich…or was it? Maybe if they just-

"Ma'am!"

It was Waxley.

"What is it?" She asked, an iota of exasperation creeping into her voice.

"Just got a text message from the asset, she's onsite."

"Good to hear. Tell her to get to the nest, and make sure she stays there until I give her the green light." She said. Then, mulling it over for a few seconds, she added, "_If_ I give her the green light." After that, she spun around, and was about to ask Rodgers if the window of time until Redfern arrived had closed when all of a sudden-

"We've got movement on Urich's end, looks like he's leaving the café."

Ryder quickly considered what the next step should be. If she didn't grab Urich now, it was very possible that the trail would grow cold, and as a result, Redfern might get away. On the other hand, if they allowed their tail to follow Urich, then they might get lucky, and encounter Redfern as he made his way back to the _Daily Bugle_ offices. Ultimately, she opted for the latter, saying, "Have the tail follow Urich back to the _Bugle_, and have Grab Team A standby and be prepared to nab Urich if he encounters Redfern."

"Got it," was the technician's reply.

Rodgers, who had made her way to one of the technician's stations and was staring at one of their monitors, looked up at Ryder and asked, "Do you think Redfern figured out that we had eyes and ears on the place?"

"Possibly."

"Think he'll encounter Urich as he makes his way back to the _Bugle_?"

"Hopefully," Ryder said, as she turned back toward screen one, watching Urich and the kid depart, "hopefully." 


	10. Revelations

When Ben Urich and Peter Parker first arrived at the _Starbucks_ café, Urich first began to scan the crowd, seeing if anyone seated would beckon him over. This was perhaps one of the more frustrating aspects of doing an interview with an anonymous source, the fact that they were unknown. While Urich certainly didn't mind interviewing them, given how useful they were, it was definitely frustrating to try and meet up with them. What more, the sources themselves were typically jittery and nervous, due to the information they were about to part with. This resulted in them asking to see multiple forms of identification, wanting assurances that they would remain anonymous, and of course asking if you were followed or not. During their walk to the _Starbucks_, Urich had begun to question his idea of bringing Peter along with him. While he knew full well that Peter was a smart kid, he was also privy to the fact that these kinds of sources were always jumpy and bringing an extra person wouldn't help things. Nevertheless, there was nothing he could do about it now, and what with Peter's age, he hoped it would work in his benefit, making it seem more innocuous, given that the likelihood of Peter having some sort of secret double-life was _completely_ preposterous. In any case, they had arrived two minutes early, and had waited for five more minutes, with no one approaching them. Urich had offered to purchase Peter a drink, but he had replied with a simple, "no thanks." Eventually, after two more minutes of waiting at a table, still with nobody coming up to them, Urich decided that their "source" was either a crank caller or a no-show, and had gotten up and left the café, still unaware that they were being followed.

While Urich was scanning the crowd, waiting for someone to approach him, Peter had also kept a fervent watch, searching for the instigator who tripped up his spider-sense. So far, nothing had stuck out at him, and his head was beginning to ache. Since they had arrived at the café, Peter had determined that whoever was causing him the headache was probably not one of his usual enemies, but just a pedestrian, possibly a low-level thief or some other similar character. Otherwise, there might have been a massive explosion somewhere, or a large group of civilians would be running away, plus screaming, a whole lot of screaming. While Peter was somewhat soothed by these revelations, he still found his blaring spider-sense a painful irritant, and just wished that whoever was responsible would hurry up and reveal himself/herself, so that he could change into costume and deal with it. Unfortunately, that was a scenario which did not appear to be developing anytime soon. So, with some minor resignation, Peter got up and followed Urich out of the café, hoping that his buzzing would fade away as they headed back to the _Bugle_, allowing Peter to get back on track with the Trask research. Yet no sooner had they left the _Starbucks_ café and were heading back towards Park Place then they both heard a voice emanating from an alleyway.

"_Pssst-Hey Urich!_"

Urich immediately turned to face the person who had called out to him, eyeing him suspiciously. "Who are you?"

"_The one who called you earlier today…the one who said to meet here!_" Said the man, eyes frantic.

Urich did not reply immediately, but instead, peered upon him with a look of befuddlement. While there were a few peculiar sources he had encountered throughout the years, he had never met one inside of an alleyway. If anything, the alleyway was a place unidentified sources _tried_ to avoid the most. But after a quick appraisal of his hygiene and clothing, both of which looked relatively fresh and clean, he determined that this man was not a potential mugger, or some other vagabond. Regardless, he still decided it would be a good idea to ask: "Do you have any form of ID, to show me that you're who you really say you are?"

The red-haired man seemed to be rather frustrated, but still complied, quickly pulling up some sort of tag which hung around his neck, before tossing it to him. _"Here! Now will you please get out of the street!_"

Urich caught the tag, and flipped it up. What he saw made his hands tremble, and the small of his back to sweat. This guy had a government ID! He was the source! He was legitimate! Hands still shaking, Urich turned towards Peter, who was peering inquisitively at the man in the alley. "Peter?"

Peter's head immediately swiveled up to meet Urich's eyes. "Yeah?"

"You okay if we go into the alley?"

"Um, yeah, if you think this guy's real."

"Oh yes, he's real Pete. He's real."

The reason why Urich had all of a sudden gone light-headed was because something of this magnitude hadn't occurred before. The last time Urich could recall a federal source approaching reporters and giving them information about a government cover-up was Watergate, something which had occurred over thirty or more years ago! The potential for this story trumped all others, even his series of articles on the Kingpin! Urich could not believe it. He was ecstatic, he was ebullient, he was-

"_Urich!_" Said the source, beckoning with his arm, "_get the hell in here!_"

Urich immediately obliged, with Peter right behind him.

Meanwhile, at the Cryptkeeper headquarters, Ryder watched as Urich and the kid entered the alleyway. She was about to say something when Rodgers, who had her left hand over her earpiece, said, "Our guy wants to intercept, should we-?"

"Yes!" Ryder said, pointing towards Rodgers with a rolled up packet. "Get Grab Team A in that alley now! Have the other teams get a layout of the alley and have them ready to plug it up if we have to, got it?"

Rodgers nodded immediately, pulling the earpiece out of her ear, and delegating orders to the various technicians. All the while Ryder stared very intently at screen one, whose onscreen imagery had zoomed in intensely, focusing on the alley, the result of the one agent's machinations, given how he was in possession of one of the cameras feeding live footage onto the screens within the Cryptkeeper offices. _Now we've got you._ Thought Ryder smugly.

To Peter, everything seemed to happen so fast.

When Urich and Peter first entered the alley, their source, who said that he could be called, "Charlie" immediately yanked on Urich's sleeve, insisting that they had to move _now_.

"What's the rush?" Urich had asked.

"If we don't move _now_, we'll both be dead!" Charlie had said. After he had delivered his urgent message, he then froze, hearing the sound of a vehicle rapidly approaching.

Urich, after he had craned his neck to hear the noise out on the street, turned to 'Charlie' and asked, "Are they looking for you?"

Charlie's eyes had widened even more, glancing at Urich to say, "Listen, we have to move _now_, and by the way, they'll be looking for you too, unless you want to take your chances with _them_."

To Urich, that was all the convincing he required. He quickly tucked his glasses and notepad away (since he had gotten them out for the impromptu interview) and said, "Follow me. Peter, you too."

_Dammit!_ Peter thought to himself. _I need to get out of here and change! Maybe I can lose them in the street-_

Peter's thoughts were interrupted by Urich, who said, "Come on Peter, we've got to go!" With a silent groan, Peter acquiesced, running after Urich and Charlie, making sure to not outrun them.

At the Cryptkeeper headquarters, Ryder was in a full-blown commanding mode. Issuing directives left and right, asking for constant, up-to-the-second updates, as well, as remaining fixated on the three projector screens, whose footage was constantly altering as the four teams closed in on their quarry. To Ryder, this was her adrenaline high.

"We've got Grab Team A at the alleyway," reported one of the technicians, "do you want the rest of the teams to get in there with them?"

"No," replied Ryder, "we only need two teams in there to snatch them, have the remaining teams pull back and do recon-"

"So if they try to make a run for it, we can intercept them?"

"Exactly."

Rodgers chimed in. "We have a bird's-eye of the alley, do you want it up?"

Ryder pointed to the second display, "Put it up on screen two, and is the asset in the nest yet?"

"Just got there, received a text message a second ago, confirming her position."

"Excellent," Ryder said, thinking of Redfern and Urich. _You've got nowhere to run._

In the alleyway, Urich, Redfern, and Peter were practically sprinting through the narrow passageways, with Urich in the lead, Redfern right behind him, and Peter bringing up the rear. Urich's first idea was to cut across, in order to reach West Broadway, where they might hopefully lose their pursuers in the crowded streets, given how it was nine-thirty in the morning and many people were in fact heading to their jobs. That plan, however, had hit a roadblock when they saw a silver minivan pull up and expel several men, who had proceeded to rapidly enter the alley, no doubt searching for them. This had forced them to take a sharp right, which would lead them to Park Place. Urich was about to exit when Redfern grabbed him by the shoulder, saying, "Are you crazy, don't go out there!"

"Alright, fine," Urich snapped, pulling Redfern's arm off of his shoulder and spinning around to face him, "do you have a better idea?"

Redfern had been thinking of one for a while now. He already figured that they would try to shut down the alleyway, and he was pretty sure that they might have some people outside, in case they managed to exit the alley. Unfortunately, that was all guess-work, and Redfern was not sure how exactly to lose them. Frustrated, he looked up towards the sky, wishing that something-_any_thing would come to him. _If only we could fly!_ He thought, before immediately becoming embarrassed, having come up with such a juvenile idea. But wait! Was it _really_ that bad of an idea? _Fly-up, up, upstairs…UP!_ Quickly, he turned toward Urich, speaking very fast.

"The building! We'll go up the building!"

"Excuse me?"

"Look, we're standing right next to a rather tall apartment building. We go inside, they lose us, got it?"

Urich was slightly perplexed, given the rapidity with which Redfern spoke. Nevertheless, he agreed.

The first thing they had to do was find a backdoor. Fortunately, that was easy, as there was a door in their alleyway. Regrettably, it was locked, probably to prevent thieves and vandals from entering. This did not hinder Redfern, however, who, in desperation, proceeded to hammer on the doorknob with his foot, until the lock eventually gave way. There was little time for respite, however, as all three of them heard the sounds of rapidly approaching footsteps. Thus proceeding quickly, they all entered the building, closing the door behind them, hoping that a garbage pin propped up against the door would hide the damage to the doorknob.

Throughout all of this, Peter continued to search around, vainly hoping that there would be a chance for him to dart away into costume. At first, Peter had retained a vague sense of suspicion upon seeing Redfern, wondering if he was the reason his spider-sense was going off like a fire alarm. This, however, turned out to be a red herring, given that his spider-sense had not increased in its intensity when he came closer to Redfern. Instead, it had increased when whoever was chasing Redfern began to close in on them, causing Peter to believe that he and Urich had been _followed_ to the _Starbucks_, and that whoever had followed them was part of the group who were now closing in on them. _RRRRRRGH! If only I could change!_ But Peter had not been given a window of opportunity yet, since Urich always managed to keep an eye on both Redfern and him. Needless to say, all three of them were rapidly proceeding up the stairs, listening for any sounds of a door opening. They had gone up two flights when Redfern stopped and handed Urich his black attaché case.

"Give me your jacket."

"Excuse me?" Urich asked, somewhat stupefied.

"Look Urich, you've got to trust me on this. Outside we've got who knows how many government teams searching for us. We don't have a lot of time. If we change our outfits, we might be able to lose them and get away!"

Urich still looked skeptical, but complied nonetheless. "Alright, here," he said, taking off his trademark dress jacket and handing over to Redfern, who relinquished his own jacket, a lengthy beige trench coat, "but I still don't see why I need to carry your briefcase around-"

"Because that briefcase has everything you need to write this story," Redfern said quickly. "Listen, this briefcase is why those guys are out there chasing us, this is their playbook, this has most of their _dirty little secrets_. Thus, it is important, no, it is _imperative_ that you not let them get their hands on it. Understand?"

"Perfectly," Urich said, becoming serious, "so what do you need me to do?"

Redfern said nothing, brushing his hand through his hair. Then it hit him. "Okay, so here's the plan, we each split up, you go out the front, and I'll see if there's another exit."

"You sure that's a good idea? I mean, what if there's someone out front?"

"I know, I know," Redfern said, pacing back and forth, "but it's the best plan I got, and I've got a bad feeling that if we don't do something quickly, they'll figure out where we are, and then we're screwed."

"But what if they mistake me for you, and then they grab the suitcase?"

"I don't know about that, but I'm pretty sure that if they did follow me here, than they must've been pretty damn good since these are completely new clothes which I bought here, and I took two different taxis to arrive at this particular location. Now, they may recognize my briefcase, so I suggest you hide it in the coat. It is big enough, after all."

"Got it," Urich said, "on one condition, the kid comes with me."

_Dammit!_ Peter thought.

"Fine," Redfern said, "just make sure you stay in the crowd, and make sure not to panic and run."

"No problem," Urich said, extending a hand, "Good luck."

Redfern looked down at the hand as he buttoned up Urich's jacket, eventually clasping it and shaking it, "You too."

With that, they departed.

Sarah Ryder was beginning to feel uneasy.

It had been several minutes since Redfern, Urich, and that one kid had disappeared into the alleyway. It was only one block. They should have heard from one of the teams by now, but so far there had been no confirmation.

"Come on, people! We cannot afford to lose them," said Ryder, pacing the room.

"Get Mobile One into the alley," Rodgers said, pointing at the first monitor screen, with its live footage.

"Wait a minute, Grab Team A found something!" Said a technician, voice elevated so everyone in the room could hear it.

"What? What did they find?" Ryder exclaimed, heading over towards the technician.

"Mobile Four reported finding a busted doorknob on the side of an apartment building, right next to Park Place."

"Get them in there! And have the other teams focus their surveillance on that building! I'd also like to have a visual of the building up here," she said, tapping the biggest of the three screens.

While Cryptkeeper headquarters were rearranging their monitoring capabilities around the apartment building Urich, Redfern, and Peter had entered only a few minutes ago, Grab Team A was entering the building and had quickly fanned out. Two of them proceeded to rush upstairs, while the remaining two surveyed the ground floor. After Saunders, the team leader, and Jefferies, one of the other group members, searched all of the potential hiding places on the ground floor, they then hurried over to the main entrance of the building, which opened up directly to Church Street. Saunders immediately opened the door, but found the sidewalks to be incredibly crowded, filled with a variety of different people. As a result, he and Jefferies were forced to stand at the entrance, seeing if they could spot Urich or Redfern. After a few moments of waiting, Saunders heard a voice coming from inside his ear.

"Mobile Four, this is Mobile Two. No signs of the subjects up here."

Saunders responded immediately, speaking into the lapel of his jacket. "Roger that, Mobile Two, return to ground floor."

Saunders then returned his gaze to the sidewalk, when Jefferies suddenly nudged his arm, directing his attention to a man wearing a lengthy, beige trench coat, with long, dark hair, stopping at his shoulders. Saunders began to wonder if this was Urich, considering that he had arrived at the _Starbucks_ wearing a shorter dress jacket, not this lengthier one. Despite this, Saunders still determined that it was worth a shot. Thus he radioed in, telling the rest of his team to rendezvous at the entrance to the apartment building, and called in to the Cryptkeeper headquarters, telling them about his potential lead.

After he had radioed to both his team and HQ, Saunders and Jefferies began to quickly push through the crowd, in an attempt to catch up with their target. Normally, Saunders would have waited until his entire team had regrouped, but time was of the essence, and if they waited, they would risk losing him. They were now both rapidly gaining on him, Jefferies taking out an auto-injector filled with a heavy sedative out of his jacket pocket and prepping it, while Saunders was mentally counting down the seconds until they reached him. _Ten…nine…eight…_they were so close…_six…five…damn!_ Both Saunders and Jefferies were stopped, rather abruptly, by traffic, given that their target had managed to traverse the crosswalk heading across Park Place, and the traffic waiting had been given a green light. _Dammit!_ Thought Saunders, as he reached down to speak into his jacket lapel again.

"Mobile Four has lost the subject," reported one of the technicians.

"What happened?"

"Got stuck at a traffic crossing, the subject managed to cross before they could."

Ryder sighed. Nevertheless, she remained unfazed. "Did the subject just cross the street?"

"Yes ma'am, but we still haven't heard anything about Redfern yet-"

"Forget Redfern. Let's just focus on what we do know. Can we get a visual of our current target?"

The technician complied, and soon enough, Mobile One, still perched on the third floor of a building across the street from the _Starbucks_, had zoomed in on the target-in-question, giving a crystal clear image of the person they were focusing on.

"That's him," Ryder said, staring at the image of Urich onscreen.

"What did they do? Change jackets?" Rodgers asked curiously.

"Seems like it."

"So what do you want to do?"

"Do we have any teams nearby?"

"No. Grab Team C is on Murray Street, and Grab Team D is parked at Park Place. The other two are in the building and the alleyway."

"Can't Grab Team D pull out and get him?"

"Unfortunately not. Traffic's too heavy, and there's no way they'd get to him in time on foot."

"Alright," Ryder said, turning to look at Rodgers, "give the asset a green light, take him out."

Meanwhile, Urich and Peter were walking quickly down Church Street, with Urich trying very hard to suppress the urge to run, or to look behind him. In an attempt to make him forget about his potential pursuers, he began to strike up a casual conversation with Peter.

"So, Peter, how about that, huh? Pretty weird, right?"

"Uh, yeah, sure, whatever you say, Mr. Urich," Peter responded, looking around. While his spider-sense had hit a real high note a few moments, it seemed to be dying down now. Maybe-

Peter's thoughts were all of a sudden interrupted by what sounded like a dull _thunk_. No sooner had Peter heard that almost imperceptible sound than Urich immediately fell to the ground. Alarmed, Peter rushed over to his side and turned him over, saying, "M-Mr. Urich? Are you okay? Mr.-"

What he saw caused him to become somewhat dizzy, as well as a little light-headed. Somewhere nearby, he heard a woman scream as a crowd began to form around him and Urich. Urich was crumpled up on the ground, eyes wide, with a halo of blood forming around his head. Peter, all of a sudden feeling as though he needed some air, pushed his way through the crowd, looking up at all of the tall buildings, feeling his anger and rage boiling. _Who did this?! WHO!_

* * *

While the crowd was forming around Urich's body, a lone figure was standing perfectly still behind a billboard with rotating advertisements, a sniper rifle, perched on a stand anchored to the ground. Being methodical, she remained in position, surveying the area where Urich fell, to ensure that she did in fact hit him. During her wait, someone emerged from the crowd and proceeded to look around, as though he was searching for someone. This person, he seemed familiar to her, who was-

Then, suddenly, it clicked, and a voice rose up from somewhere in the back of her mind, saying, _Peter?!_

After that, she blacked out.


	11. Evidence Trail

Mary-Jane Watson was out cold, when, seemingly out of nowhere, she heard a voice.

_Wake up._

At first she was confused. The voice inside her head did not sound like her own voice. It definitely was not one of her own thoughts. It was almost as if she had heard someone else, as though there was another person _inside of her_.

_WAKE UP_.

The elevation of tone from the voice did it. She thought she heard a rush of air, and then…she was awake.

MJ stirred, eyes fluttering open. _Where am I?_ She thought, looking around. One of the first things she felt was coldness. Slowly she sat up, becoming vaguely aware of a throbbing pain located somewhere on the back of her head. Also, she felt dizzy, very, very dizzy. A quick look around revealed that she was not in her bedroom, the last place she remembered being. Instead, she was semi-sprawled on a concrete floor, hearing the sound of traffic somewhere nearby. Slowly, she got up, now completely bewildered. _How the hell did I end up here? Was it one of those flashbacks, or-_she stumbled. Immediately, one of MJ's hands shot out, trying to grab anything to steady herself. She felt her hand clutch something, allowing her to regain her footing. Glancing over to see what object she had grasped, MJ found herself startled to see that she was holding onto the stock of some sort of weapon, a sniper rifle, by the looks of it. But what frightened her even more than seeing such a deadly weapon nearby was the fact that she knew what kind of sniper rifle it was, how to disassemble it, and how to fire it. _A Swiss Arms AG SG 550 Sniper. Used extensively with telescopic sights. 650 millimeter-long barrel with a 254 millimeter rifling twist rate. Complete with noise and light suppressor plus a modified underside to allow for placement on a telescoping stand. Can be disassembled into four compact parts. Whoa. _She staggered again. Outside, she heard the sound of sirens, police sirens to be exact. A morbid curiosity soon took over, causing MJ to peer through the scope mounted on the rifle to see what the ruckus was.

What she saw made her sick.

Outside, past the rotating flaps of a billboard, there was a group of civilians standing around, looking down at someone lying on the street. There were only two figures which were standing near the person, both of them wearing suits, one of them speaking into a cell phone, while the other one seemed to be inspecting the person on the sidewalk. It didn't take long for her to figure out that the person on the sidewalk was Benjamin Urich, and he appeared to be _dead._ After that, MJ vomited. She then stood there, left arm leaning against the wall, gasping, in an attempt to regain her composure. She found that her mind was reeling, and her body was becoming numb. _D-Did I shoot him?...N-no, no…that's crazy talk…that-that can't be. Is it? I-no, there's no way I could've done it…I-I'm just a kid…I'm in high school, I'm-_

_**NO.**_

MJ froze.

_**We**__** did it.**_

_Wh-Who-who said that? _She thought, slowly looking around. "He-Hello?" She asked meekly, quietly, still searching the small alcove she was in.

_**Leave.**_

Hearing the sound of that, that--whatever it was, MJ walked over to a wall, sinking down into a crouching position, wondering if she was going into shock.

_**We must go—**__**NOW.**_

Upon hearing that voice a _fourth_ time, MJ realized that it probably would be a good idea to depart, with the hope that whoever was speaking to her would stop once she had left. So she made her way to a nearby trapdoor, still feeling dazed, opened it, and climbed down a ladder, not even thinking to go back and pack up the sniper rifle.

* * *

While MJ was leaving the alcove, the crowd around Urich was becoming bigger. Now two squad cars had pulled up, and they had begun to form a small perimeter, pushing the civilians back so as to have enough room to preserve the crime scene. One of the officers promptly came over to a man wearing a business suit, who was peering down at Urich's head.

"Listen pal, this is a crime scene, so if you could move-"

"Relax, officer, I haven't touched him."

"That's great, now would you mind moving out of the way? We have to cordon this place off so-"

"Excuse me…sir?"

The officer turned, seeing a younger man approach him, also wearing a somewhat similar suit, closing a cell phone. "Yeah?"

"Name's Richard Murphy," said the younger man, reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling out a badge, "…and I'm with S.H.I.E.L.D. Anyways, that's my partner you were talking to, and I just got off the phone with the Deputy Director, and he said that we could inspect the body first."

The officer sighed, adjusted his cap, and muttered a curse under his breath. "Alright, Mr. Murphy. He's all yours. Now, how much of a perimeter are you going to need?"

Murphy frowned, thinking it over, before turning to his partner. "How much room are we going to need Jack?"

Murphy's partner, Jack Kendall, a man which appeared to be slightly older than Murphy, replied with a quick, "Three meters."

The officer nodded, and then went over to his fellow officers, to spread the word. Meanwhile, Kendall pulled out two latex gloves from his jacket pocket, and bent down, snapping them on. "Okay, let's see what we have here."

In terms of the hierarchal structure of S.H.I.E.L.D., Kendall and Murphy were fairly low on the communications chain. While they were not solely ground troops, they did not have the same rank as Sharon Carter or James Woo, both of which were somewhat more autonomous. Instead, Murphy was a 2nd lieutenant, while Kendall had achieved the rank of captain. The fact that Carol Danvers was once a captain of S.H.I.E.L.D. before being promoted to Acting Director was something Kendall never really got over. While he tried to put the fact that Danvers had received the promotion and he didn't past him, it never really worked, always coming back to haunt him, resulting in him complaining to whomever he was working with at the moment, causing much frustration on his partner's end.

When they had gotten the call to tail Urich and Parker to a _Starbucks_ in the city, Kendall was very consistent in badgering Murphy about how, "Danvers had it in for him," and that, "if I were 'Acting Director,' than I wouldn't have to worry about tramping around the city, going on a wild goose chase." Murphy had decided to ignore his rant, contentedly staring out of the window of their vehicle, volunteering to follow Urich and Parker on foot after they had exited their taxi. After they had arrived, Murphy came in a few moments after them, taking a table which was in perfect view of Urich and Parker's table. He had then waited a few minutes, watching the two of them until they both got up and left. Murphy then waited a few minutes more, in case they doubled back, before stepping outside and checking on them, to see if they were in fact headed back towards the _Bugle_. He had considered following them all the way back to the newspaper's offices, but considered that to be overkill. The mission objective was, after all, to follow them to the _Starbucks_ whereupon a photograph would be taken of their "source" and sent back to command where they would determine if it warranted any further investigation. Since Urich's "source" had failed to materialize, Murphy decided to call headquarters back and tell them the status of the mission. Afterwards, he then called Kendall, telling him of the mission's status before offering to buy him coffee.

"You see Rich? What'd I tell you?"

"Yeah, yeah. So, you want coffee or what?"

"Yeah sure. I guess. Get me something that's got a lot of sugar in it, got it?

"Sure thing," Murphy said, before hanging up.

Fifteen minutes later, after Kendall had found a parking place, he then entered the _Starbucks_, only to double back outside upon hearing a shriek from the next block over. Both Kendall and Murphy had immediately rushed to the next block, running over to where a group of pedestrians were standing, looking down at something. Kendall and Murphy, upon arriving at the source of the screaming, went to see what everybody was looking at. Upon noticing the form of Urich, Kendall had urged the crowd to back up a few feet, while Murphy had rapidly called back the Triskelion, informing them of the current situation. The cops had then arrived, and now Kendall was inspecting Urich's body, wondering if the reporter was still alive.

Obviously, the local law enforcement was going to be pissed. That was the first thought that had entered Kendall's mind. The police viewed what he and Murphy were doing as infringing on their territory. Yet they had no other choice but to comply, given how the Deputy Director of S.H.I.. had given them a direct order that they be the first to inspect the body. The second thought Kendall had while determining where the bullet had entered the body was when the paramedics were going to arrive, and of course, whether Urich could be saved. So far, there seemed to be severe blood loss, but maybe it was superficial-

"Hey Jack?"

"Yeah?" Kendall had responded, not taking his eyes off of Urich.

"Does Parker have a girlfriend?"

Kendall mulled it over for a few moments, before saying, "Yeah. Mary-Jane Watson. Redhead. Goes to the same school as him. Why?"

"Because she's right across the street."

"Great. You want to go over there and get her autograph?"

"No, no. I think I'll go over and ask her a few questions."

Kendall had then grunted something else, but Murphy was already jogging across the street, calling out to MJ. The reason why he was crossing the street was because when they had first entered the crowd, Murphy had scanned the onlookers, searching for Parker, who he knew was accompanying Urich. But for some reason, he was nowhere to be found. Looking across the street, he had seen Mary-Jane Watson exiting a building. Wondering if perhaps she knew where Parker had disappeared to, he decided to cross the street and speak with her. Yet no sooner had he navigated the crosswalk and said, "Ms. Watson! I'm Agent Richard Murphy, mind if I ask you a few questions-" did she dart away, cutting through a back alley next to the building she had just exited. Murphy had then followed Watson to the alley, where, upon turning into it, found that she was nowhere in sight. _Huh! That's weird. Wonder where she went?_ He had then inspected the alleyway and the street it had opened out into before back-tracking to the building she had exited.

Looking up, he had found it to be a rather ugly parking garage. At first he assumed that she had just parked her car in the garage and was going off to work at her job or was just running some errands. But he soon realized that it still didn't account for her running away from him. Based on her face, she appeared to be edgy and frantic, causing Murphy to wonder if she had something to hide. So he had entered the parking garage cautiously, checking to make sure he wasn't being setup for an ambush. Obviously, Murphy had no idea what he was searching for. Watson had looked at him wide-eyed before fleeing. Was she the reason Urich was dead? Murphy certainly didn't think so, but given how she had sprinted away from him, was it really possible that she was innocent? After some thought, he began to wonder how Urich was killed. Based upon where he lay, he assumed it must have been a gunshot wound. _Now all I need is some evidence._ He thought, walking amongst the parked cars. If MJ was responsible for Urich's injury, then she would have to have a ranged weapon, something that could fire a bullet across the street. What more, she would have to be up higher. Looking over at the stairwell, Murphy considered going up several floors, in order to better ascertain his theory. So up he went, stopping at the second floor. Or rather, he would have stopped at the second floor, except for the fact that he realized Watson would require more height to be able to successfully pinpoint and target Urich. Plus she would need a nice, sequestered area to shoot at him, lest she be stopped by some good samaritan. Murphy then quickly admonished himself for thinking that a high school sophomore was responsible for the possible death of a reporter. It was ridiculous. While he was lost in thought and climbing the stairwell to reach the third floor, he suddenly found a door open, one which, under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have expected to be open. Regardless of this, he unholstered his gun, clicked off the safety, and entered. After entering what seemed to him to be a dingy maintenance corridor, he soon found a ladder, which led up to a recess of some sort. Placing his weapon back in his holster, he slowly climbed the ladder, only allowing the top of his head to appear above the trapdoor, eyes searching the small niche, body ready to leap off from the ladder should the situation arise. Instead, Murphy felt something pungent hit his nose. A rather disgusting, abominable smell, an odor which actually reminded Murphy of vomit. As a matter of fact, it _was_ vomit, causing Murphy to temporarily hold his nose, until he had adjusted to the stench. The next item which caught his eye was a sniper rifle, perched on what appeared to be a stand of some sort, anchored to the ground. Also, there was a backpack as well.

After Murphy had entered the alcove and congratulated himself for having proven his theory right, he then slowly placed a pair of gloves over his hands, so as to better preserve the evidence. Then, he peered through the lens of the sniper rifle, finding it to be aimed directly at the spot where Urich lay. After looking through the rifle's scope, his cell phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Immediately, he snapped it up out of his pocket and said, "Murphy speaking."

"Hey Rich. It's me, Jack. I was wondering if you were done 'interviewing' Watson."

"Why's that?"

"Because I found out where the bullet entered."

"Really? Because _I_ found out where the bullet was fired from."

"Yeah? And where would that be exactly?"

"Third floor of the parking garage across the street, behind the billboard."

There was a silence on the other end. Finally, "Are you serious?"

"Yep. Everything we need is here. Got ourselves a long-range sniper rifle and a backpack. We even have the stomach contents of the alleged killer if the other two items fail to give any ID."

"You're serious?"

"You just said that."

"I know. But I'd like to make sure you're not jerking me around."

"Trust me. Someone up here threw up. Now, do you know where Parker is?"

"No. Haven't found him actually. All I know is that the paramedics are finally here, and if we're lucky, the ID of my bullet will match up with your gun."

"It'd better," was Murphy's reply, before hanging up to call the Triskelion.

_Writer's Note: Hello Readers. A quick apology if this chapter feels up a bit expository and appears to be more of a "filler" than the previous chapter. I promise you that something really shocking will occur in the next chapter, so keep reading, and if you feel like it, R & R! _


	12. Realizations

_Writer's Note: Hello Everyone. Very sorry about the lengthy delays with this latest chapter. To cut to the chase, my computer crashed, and then there was a virus and spyware infection. Regardless, I still hope you enjoy this chapter, and as always, R&R! _

Acting Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Carol Danvers was fairly upset, methodically tapping her fingers on her desk, awaiting the lab reports following the fiasco from downtown Manhattan. Obviously she was frustrated. _That kid seems to attract trouble wherever he goes,_ she mused to herself, staring out of the window.

The _kid_ Danvers was talking about was Peter Parker. Even something as mundane as a meeting in a _Starbucks _had quickly transformed into something much more dangerous, culminating with a comatose journalist and the discovery of a sniper rifle perched behind a billboard, with the very obvious conclusion being that the target was either Parker or Urich, the reporter now lying in a hospital bed, fighting for survival. Sometimes-

"Director Danvers, the test results came back from the lab."

Danvers swiveled around in her chair at the sound of Channing's voice. "And?"

Channing held up a manila folder before responding with a, "You're not going to like this."

"Well, we'll just have to see about that," Danvers replied, reaching out and taking the folder. Immediately upon opening it she found a photograph of Mary-Jane Watson, Parker's on-and-off girlfriend. "What's this doing in here?" She asked, holding the photo aloft.

"I was about to get to that," Channing said, standing perfectly still. "After running several tests and scans, Ms. Watson's DNA is the one which keeps coming back the most."

"Impossible. There's no way she can be connected to this."

"Actually ma'am, if you look at Kendall's report, there is a mention of Murphy, his partner, noticing Ms. Watson across the street, exiting the building where the rifle was later found. The way I see it, that sounds like reasonable suspicion to me."

Still skeptical, Danvers quickly skimmed through the rest of the report. The DNA computer scans, the fingerprints, the report by Kendall, it all checked out. After realizing that Watson _may have _in fact fired the weapon, she looked back up at Channing, her mind sifting through the information in front of her, trying to determine the next best plan of action. "Where did we get this DNA sample?"

"Well," Channing replied, "we obviously didn't have any samples on hand, so we called the Baxter Building, which willingly provided DNA and blood samples from—"

"Wait," Danvers said, interrupting Channing, "why did _they_ have samples of Watson's blood? Did they run some tests on her?"

"In a way, yes. If you recall, Ms. Watson was kidnapped by one of Parker's clones, and an unknown quantity of OZ was injected into her bloodstream. After she was exposed to the OZ, she then transformed into a figure similar to Norman and Harry Osborn's…_alternative personas_."

"You mean like a monster."

"Uh…yes. Anyways, after this revelation, Doctor Richards, with the assistance of Doctor Storm, took her back to the Baxter Building and managed to cure her of her affliction, and, well, _that's _where we got the samples," Channing finished, clearly relieved with having completed the lengthy explanation.

There was a brief moment of silence. Danvers was uncertain of what to do next, searching through the printouts, reports, and photos, again, vainly searching for some clue hoping to direct her towards what to do next. So far, nothing popped up. From her perspective, this may have been circumstantial evidence, not enough to warrant a follow-up questioning. Or rather, that's what she would have _liked_ to believe, were it not for the obvious fingerprints on the gun, the stomach contents, and the backpack, all of which possessed some form of DNA evidence which, judging from the documents she held in her hands, clearly pointed to Watson as the prime suspect. Sighing resignedly, she turned toward Channing and handed the folder back, saying, "Alright, I guess there's no other way around it. Send a team out to Watson's house along with heavy backup."

Channing took the folder while raising a skeptical eyebrow, "We're sending men over? But why? Even if it _is _her, why not just have the local law enforcement pick her up? We-"

"-Because according to Watson's history, she was exposed to OZ. Now, I'm not entirely sure if the OZ cure worked on her, but if it _didn't_, than I'd rather _we _handled it instead of having a few local police come by and end up becoming victims to an out-of-control monster," Danvers, said, finishing Channing's sentence.

"Yes ma'am," Channing said, before leaving to make the necessary preparations.

Mary-Jane Watson quietly opened up the side door to her house hoping not to wake her mother. Looking up at the clock, she noticed it read one-thirty in the morning. Ordinarily she would feel a twinge of remorse, knowing that her mother had probably gone through several worrying fits, as was her overprotective nature. But as of now, she had far bigger problems to worry about than what her mother might say to her the next day, problems which she still didn't completely grasp.

MJ, given the rather bizarre and eerie circumstances which had transpired within the parking garage, had immediately left the building soon after hearing that mysterious voice, which seemed to materialize out of nowhere, sprinting when she heard her name called. Despite her numerous traumatic experiences, she was never as paranoid as today, pacing around the city, always looking behind her, worried that she might get caught.

Ultimately, MJ _herself_ wasn't even sure what happened up in the third floor, much less why she was running or whom she was running from. Despite the scare that occurred when she immediately knew what kind of weapon it was, the far more ominous fright was seeing Urich's body lying down on the street, his head surrounded in a bloody halo.

But what was worse than the possibility she had killed Urich was that insidious voice she heard in her head. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but it seemed almost as if there was another mind _inside of her_. One which wasn't her own.

Obviously, MJ spent most of the day trying to push this gruesome thought out of her head. Instead, she tried to spend the time pondering how exactly she ended up in the middle of the city, especially since the last thing she could remember was lying down on her bed, writing within her diary.

But now, as she quietly made her way up the stairs to her bedroom, desperately hoping to put this nightmarish day behind her, she suddenly began to feel this eerie sensation, almost as if someone were whispering in her ear, except there was nobody present. Hoping that she might find succor in her bedroom, she quickly darted inside closing the door in the quietest manner possible.

MJ surveyed her room, quietly listening and waiting, hoping that the voice she had heard was nothing but her imagination.

A few minutes passed. Still deafening silence. Not realizing that she was holding her breath, MJ quietly let out an audible gasp of relief.

_**Look under the bed. NOW.**_

The voice came in a boom, so loud it caused MJ to drop to the ground. _What-who-who was that?_ She was beginning to sweat a little now, realizing her pretenses were for naught. _Please, please just leave me alone. I don't want this. I just want to—_

_**SILENCE.**_

MJ, half-kneeling on the floor of her bedroom, looked around her room again. There was no one in the here aside from her. _Am-am I going crazy? Who-who's speaking to me? Who-_

_**LOOK. UNDER. THE. BED. **_

The commanding voice, deeply resonant, frightened her immensely with the prospects of what might happen if she did not obey. Therefore, MJ followed the authoritative voice's instructions, pulling her droopy bedcovers aside to peer under the bed. Despite the incredible level of darkness, she nevertheless could make out the outline of what appeared to be a small box. Reaching out, she grabbed it, and pulled it out from under the bed. It was locked.

_**Left pocket. **_

MJ hesitated for a moment before relinquishing, reaching into the left pocket of her pants, pulling out a key which, judging by the size of the keyhole on the box fit perfectly.

_Okay, this is getting too weird. I'm just going to go-_

_**OPEN. THE. BOX. **_

MJ thought about it for a second, not really wanting to know what was in there. After a few more seconds of consideration, she began to place the key on her nightstand, when suddenly, to her horror, her arm began to move slowly towards the box, as if it possessed a mind of its own.

MJ struggled against opening the box, but to no avail. It was as if some other force was manipulating her arm. Slowly, the key was inserted, and turned, causing the box to open with a _click_. Following this, her arm then slowly tilted the lid up, and what MJ saw next caused her feel a tad queasy.

Inside the box were several passports, each one registered to a different government. One was registered to France, another to Germany, Italy, Switzerland, and so on. In addition to the myriad passports, there were also various currencies, from Euros to dollars. But perhaps the item which grabbed her attention the most was a small handgun, a Smith and Wesson Model 1006, complete with a sound suppressor and a magazine.

Seeing this caused her head to reel slightly. Nevertheless, she was mystified by this small treasure trove in front of her. Instead of closing the box, she reached into it, pulling out several of the passports, a sense of dread curiosity pulling her towards them, half hoping they weren't hers, half wondering if they were. Opening one of them, she found her photograph inside, a small, red-headed face staring rather neutrally back at her.

The fact that MJ didn't remember getting her picture taken for a passport, much less several, resulted in her feeling as though she might be in the midst of a mental breakdown. She certainly was deserving of one, given how she had been thrown off a bridge, genetically altered, and so on. Not wanting to push through the contents of this mysterious box any longer, she quickly closed the box, stood up, and kicked it under the bed. Pausing to collect herself, she soon found her gaze drifting towards the mirror on her make-up table, and what she saw caused her to almost scream, although she was far too shocked to be able to muster the air.

Instead of her normal reflection, she was staring back into something which, to her, was frightening and hideous, as though some sort of nightmare beast had stepped out of her dreams and into her room.

This odd entity was approximately the same height as her, frozen in the same teetering pose MJ now found herself in. The shape of this, this thing, was humanoid, and the color of it was a deep dark purple, with jagged strands of black crisscrossing its body. It possessed long talons and claws, which appeared capable of shredding almost any substance. The most frightening feature though was the head, which seemed startlingly similar to a human, possessing hair, eyes, and a mouth. But these similarities only made it that much more terrible and grotesque, as the eyes were an empty white, with no pupils to be seen, while the mouth, almost appeared to be fanged, frozen in some sort of grin which made it seem as if this abomination had lockjaw.

All of this was far too much for MJ to be able to process. She would have screamed quite loudly, although she still too terrified to be able to speak.

_Wh-what—_

_**This…this is who we are. **_

___Wait-what?...No, no, that's impossible. _

_**You and I…we are…one. **_

__MJ felt as though she might pass-out, which would have been merciful, but that was not the case. Instead, she merely tottered backwards, hitting the door of her closet and leaning on it, still staring numbly at the monstrosity in the mirror, continuing the otherworldly mental conversation.

_I-no…no. That, that isn't possible. _

_**But it is possible. It is true. We are united in mind and body. **_

__Under lighter circumstances, MJ might have felt compelled to grin; given the rather banal tone conversation was taking. Already she could imagine Peter making a few sarcastic quips, mocking the rather serious tone the creature was taking.

_**Remember the night two days ago? We became one that day. **_

__MJ, at the creature's questioning manner, flashed back to two nights ago, remembering the vile experience she had endured. Suddenly, it clicked. The colors of the ghoulish figure were very similar to the amorphous blob which had grabbed her Friday night. Still, this revelation did not relieve MJ of her stress. Rather, it compounded it. Thus it made sense that soon put on a stubborn veneer of denial, perhaps as a defense mechanism for what she was currently experiencing.

_**You do remember. **_

Even in her current circumstances, MJ somehow managed to find the ability to speak again, which was impressive, given the exacting toll this ordeal was having on her mental functions.

"I-I don't believe you," she whispered in a barely audible tone.

_**Then I will show you. **_

What MJ experienced next was something which topped everything else she had gone through so far. The creature seemingly vanished from the mirror, and the next thing she felt was an intense stomach pain, as if someone had just punched her in the gut. This caused her to reel, collapsing onto the floor of her bedroom. After that, she suddenly began to feel something slippery and cool on her hands, her neck, her legs, and her entire body. Almost as if she was getting doused with ink. Withdrawing her hands from their current positions, which were cradling her stomach, she watched in terror as miniature purple-and-black tentacles emerged from _within her hands_.

As a result of witnessing the small tentacles extruding from her tiniest pores, covering her body, MJ finally, mercifully, lost consciousness.

_Knock-knock-knock._

Mrs. Watson!

"Just ring the doorbell!"

"Look, just let me try knocking once more, okay?"

"You do realize that ringing the doorbell would get a quicker reaction than knocking, right?"

_Knock-knock-knock._

Agents Kendall and Murphy were standing at the Watson's front door, waiting for someone to answer. The mood between the two could best be described as sour, given the fact that it was currently one in the morning and neither had gotten a chance for a much-needed rest.

"Alright, look. She can't hear you, okay? Let's just ring the doorbell now!"

"Fine," was Kendall's reply, throwing his hands up in the air, "you do it!"

Murphy gave nothing more than a sigh, before extending his index finger to press the doorbell. But before he could hit it, the door opened up, and there was Mary-Jane Watson's mother, dressed in a pink bathrobe.

"Hello?" Mrs. Watson asked groggily, along with a yawn.

"Mrs. Watson, hello. My name is Captain Jack Kendall, and this is my partner and associate, Richard Murphy," Kendall said, launching into his officious persona, "and we are both agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. We need to ask your daughter a few questions, is it okay—"

Mrs. Watson immediately snapped awake after the mention of S.H.I.E.L.D. Cutting off Kendall, she asked, "Oh my God! Mary! She-she never came home! I-I was staying up all night waiting for her! Is-is everything all right? What's going on!"

Now it was Murphy's turn to step up. "Ma'am, please. If you'll just relax we'll explain-"

All of a sudden Kendall shouted out, "Jesus Christ," and roughly pushed Mrs. Watson to the ground, informing Murphy to, "get her out of here!"

No sooner had Murphy hit the ground and helped half-drag, half-pull Mary's mother out of the foyer did he hear several loud gunshots go off, shortly followed by a sharp _thunk_. After making sure that Mrs. Watson was safely around the corner, Murphy then snuck a peek back into the foyer, in an attempt to determine what it was that Kendall saw. Looking around, he saw nothing, save for Kendall's weapon, which was now lying on the ground. As for Kendall, Murphy couldn't locate him at first, scanning the nearby vicinity. After a few more seconds, he soon managed to make out the faint outline of a man's shoe, closely followed by a leg, and then…Murphy managed to get a general idea of what happened. Quickly speaking to Mrs. Watson, all the while taking out his weapon and trying to fiddle for his radio, he said in a low voice, calm but urgent, "Alright ma'am, I'm going to need you to remain calm, and stay right here. I'm going to radio for backup, but I should warn you that it may take a few minutes for them to get here. Under no circumstances should you move unless I give the word, okay?"

Mrs. Watson didn't say anything, only nodded, too frightened to speak. Now that they understood each other, Murphy switched his radio on.

"Roger," the technician said. "ETA for backup is in five minutes."

"So what did he say?" Asked Agent Sharon Carter, leader of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s anti-power-terrorism task force.

The technician put down his headset in a methodical manner, pausing to collect his thoughts before saying, "We have one agent down on the premises and a civilian present."

"Who?"

"Watson's mother."

"Shit," Carter said, brushing a hand through her long, wavy red hair. A natural redhead, Carter had since dyed her hair blond, for stylistic purposes, if nothing else. Yet when Carol Danvers became the new head of S.H.I.E.L.D., Carter determined it was prudent to change her hair color to its natural hue, so she wouldn't have to worry about appearing to be a suck-up, "get me Danvers on the line."

Given how the upper echelons of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s command structure didn't have time to deal with every single mutant or genetic anomaly, Carter's task force, first constructed under Nick Fury, was built for that exact purpose. In the past, she had dealt with everything from Hammer Industries to Otto Octavius to the general public, especially with that whole clone debacle. Unfortunately, Danvers was keeping Carter's group on a very tight leash, especially since this was intended to be a low-tech, covert mission, which meant that evacuating the entire neighborhood would fly directly against the meaning of the word, "covert." Now that she had casualties on her hands, as well as the fact that Watson's mother was in danger…

"Uh, Agent Carter?"

"Yes?"

"We've patched you through to Danvers," the technician said, handing her a headset.

Immediately upon placing the headset over her head, Danvers engaged her in conversation. "What's going on over there?"

"We sent Kendall and Murphy over there, and we just received reports that one of them is down."

A moment of silence on the other end. "Which one?"

"Which agent," Carter asked aloud, "gesturing with her other hand for the technician to feed her the name.

"Yes, Carter, which agent is down?" Asked Danvers, her tone conveying a certain curtness.

"Agent Kendall," Carter answered, reading off of the techie's notepad.

Another brief pause on the other end of the line. "So what do you want?"

"I'm asking permission to engage in order to ensure the safety of Watson's mother," was Carter's straight-forward reply.

After another moment of quiet contemplation, Danvers, on the other end of the line, complied. "Fine, but just get her and Murphy out of the house. Following that, leave it to the Hulkbuster units. Are we clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

And with that, she hung up.

Upon asking for permission to enter the Watson's house, Carter already knew that she and her team would have limited capacity to assist in the arrest. She was inside of a small S.H.I.E.L.D.-issue surveillance van, similar to the one that had watched over the Parker's house when Norman Osborn managed to escape from the Triskelion. It wasn't much, but then again, this was supposed to be simple. Now that she had received permission from Danvers, she instructed the driver to pull up to Watson's house.

While the van was speeding along the empty suburban streets, Carter experienced a minor moral dilemma. She flashed back to when she and Agent Woo apprehended the mysterious figure from Hammer Industries, following the televised beat-down of Octavius at the hand of Spider-Man. Carter still felt as though these, these genetic "freaks" should be destroyed, not locked away, not, as she put it, "poked and prodded." And yet, Carter was now beginning to have second thoughts about destroying them, especially when it seemed as though these, "freaks," were getting younger and younger. First Harry Osborn, and now this. But as the van rounded the final corner and pulled up to the house belonging to Mary-Jane Watson, Carter managed to put her internal debate aside for now. She had bigger things to worry about.

As they got out, Carter issued directives to her team, comprised of six men.

"Okay, Jenkins, you and Randall stay behind me. Watch your fives and sevens. Smith will take the rear, and the rest will cover the back entrance, with the exception of Carson. You stay with the van, and keep us in the loop with HQ. Let us know when the cavalry arrives. Everybody got it?"

She looked around. They all nodded.

"Good. Let's get this done."

After stepping over Kendall's body, Carter and her squad did a quick sweep of the room. It was dead-still, causing her hair to stand up on end. She didn't like how quiet it was. It felt like a trap, like an ambush, almost as if-

"_Carter, do you read me?"_

The sound of Carson's voice in her ear startled her, resulting in her heart beating faster than normal. "I read you. What do you have?"

"Made contact with Murphy again. He's still got Watson's mother with him. Says they're in the living room."

"Which is..?"

"Three paces to your left."

Silently instructing Jenkins and Smith to stay in the foyer, Carter and Randall made their way into the living room, weapons sweeping the room, darkness making even the most mundane item appear ominous. After a few seconds, Carter was about to radio back to Carson informing him that Murphy nor Watson's mother was nowhere in sight when Randall gestured towards a nearby door, with the implication being that the pair might be in there.

Silently making their way to the door, Randall swiftly kicked it open while Carter thrust her weapon inside.

Murphy and Mrs. Watson were present within the room Randall had just kicked open. It was the bathroom.

"Jesus Carter, watch where you point that thing," Murphy whispered somewhat harshly to her.

"Sorry," she said, lowering her weapon before turning to face Mrs. Watson, who was seated on the toilet. "Ma'am, I'm Agent Carter, and this is Agent Randall from S.H.I.E.L.D. Are you okay?"

Mrs. Watson turned to face her, but did not speak, only shaking her head no.

Carter ventured a joke, in hopes of relieving the tension, but abruptly had her attention redirected when she heard two quick slicing sounds, followed by Randall shouting, "Down!"

Spinning around, she caught the slightest glimpse of some sort of swift-moving figure rushing Jenkins and Smith, who barely had time to raise their weapons before they were brutally cut down, throats spilling blood. Carter couldn't really make out who or what the figure was, but she had a pretty bad feeling she could infer who it was.

Instructing Murphy to stay in the bathroom, she shut the door and, along with Randall, opened fire on the beast, while quickly moving towards cover in the form of furniture. After making her way to rather large easy chair, she attempted to make radio contact with Carson, hoping that she would make it out of here alive.

While a rather surreal battle was developing within the Watson household, Peter Parker was safe within his own household, trying hard to sleep. It wasn't working.

_Why didn't I try to save him?_

Peter was continually haunted by the moment when Ben Urich had been shot and had collapsed onto the pavement, constantly flashing back to it.

_What did I do wrong?_

After he had been shot, Peter had taken the briefcase which that scientist had given to him and had quickly changed into his Spider-Man persona. The rest of the day had been spent meticulously combing through the block, hoping he find the person responsible. To say that he was feeling bad would have been an understatement. He was feeling disgusted with himself. It seemed as though people, people he cared about, were _still_ getting killed, even though he was right there with him.

_If only I-_

Peter's train of thought was suddenly cut off upon hearing a distant but rather loud droning noise, which almost sounded as though it was coming from right above his house. Looking out his bedroom window, he noticed a rather large transport floating overhead, emblazoned with a S.H.I.E.L.D. logo.

_What the-? S.H.I.E.L.D.? Here? Now?_ Peter paused briefly, before realizing, with some resignation,_ Ugh. May as well get the costume on._

A few minutes after, Peter had changed into his costume and leaped out of his bedroom window, feeling the rush of cool air on his body before connecting with the ground, only to use it as a springboard to land on a nearby neighbor's rooftop, and then leaping off of that rooftop, landing on another, and another.

While in the past Peter might have been more cautious with landing on other people's rooftops, he didn't care right now. He didn't even want to follow the large transport, but what choice did he have? Besides, the main reason why he chose to follow the ship was in the vain hope that wherever they were going would lead to the culprit that had attempted to kill Urich, which would give Peter some much-needed satisfaction.

_Let's hope that's the case_, Peter thought to himself, continuing to leap and bound across the neighborhood.

_Writer's Note: Okay, so this was longer than usual. As for the big surprise, that's still coming up. Yeah, I know, I promised it last chapter. Sorry. Still, I hope this has more than enough surprises to keep you entertained, and if not, then my apologies, I'm just getting back into this writing thing. Anyways, R&R (as always). _


	13. Annihilation

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. – **Sarah Ryder, ensconced within her office, rubbed the back of her neck, hoping it might bring some measure of relief to this incredibly awful day. It was two 'o' clock in the morning, and this damn operation _still_ hadn't wrapped up completely.

After the asset "Toxin" had incapacitated Urich, Ryder had to immediately pull out the entire team in order to preserve the covert nature of the operation. Unfortunately, she knew the job was only half-finished, and that there was still one piece of the puzzle that was missing.

_Redfern._

For some reason, Redfern had proven especially difficult to track down. Despite all of the technological prowess at her fingertips, he still managed to elude them. While Ryder thought that some of the blame could rest at her staff's hands, she still realized that most of the blame would also rest with her. She panicked, plain and simple, and no matter how many times she tried to convince herself that she still had acquired a partial victory with taking Urich out of the picture (for now), she also understood that the victory was superficial.

Therefore, after she ordered all of the agents to retreat, she had retired to her office to contemplate what to do next, as well as hope for a last-minute miracle that Redfern would be found. Every single time she heard footsteps in the hallway she had swiveled around to peer out of the glass windows of her office, hoping it was Rodgers. So far, nothing.

While Ryder was wrestling with what to do next, any and all thought of Urich had quickly passed out of her mind. After all, he was a target, a means to an end, and nothing more. You couldn't get "sentimental" when you were in charge of what basically amounted to a government-sanctioned "kill squad." What had happened, happened, and hopefully it wouldn't lead back to them. She had given it some thought, and believed that their tracks were sufficiently covered. After all, he did write those articles which resulted in Wilson Fisk having to flee the U.S., so technically there could be the alibi that someone put out a contract on him-

The door suddenly opened and Rodgers entered, rapping lightly on the door. Before she could open her mouth to speak Ryder immediately asked:

"Did we get him?"

Rodgers uneasily lowered her hazel eyes to the floor, instinctively touching her blond hair which she had done up into a bun. "No, unfortunately."

Ryder, after a moment, lowered her head in her hands and began to massage her temples. "Well that's just great."

"Well, I did have them set up an alert system that would notify us if Redfern tried to flee from New York. Everything's covered, from land, to air, to sea routes. He tries to leave and we'll know about it-"

"But that's not going to help me right now, is it?" Ryder shot back, glaring at Rodgers. "As of this moment, I need him now, got it? Also, there are at least a dozen or so newspapers, magazines, and other media outlets headquartered in New York. What do you think the chances are that he just runs to one of them?"

Rodgers didn't have a reply.

After several seconds of awkward silence, Rodgers timidly made a suggestion. "You thinking of using the asset to take him out?"

"That's probably what we're going to have to do."

"Even though we aren't certain of whether or not he stole any classified documents?"

"Look," Ryder said evenly, "I'm not very pleased about this either. Problem though, is that we're sort of on the line right now and if we don't shut this down, then we're going to have some particularly bad fallout. Not just for us, but for the entire agency. Understand?"

"Perfectly," Rodgers replied with a curt nod. "Shall we..?"

Ryder nodded and got up out of her chair.

After making their way to the nerve center and asking the technicians to transmit the order to locate Redfern, and upon finding him, to kill him, Ryder began to feel a bit soothed. Granted, she was still ordering the execution of someone solely to protect her own career, and yet, she still felt some slight relief.

"Ma'am?"

"What is it?" She asked in a short manner, a slight drowsiness beginning to overtake her.

"It's, um- it's the asset's phone. I-I think you better check it out."

_What now? _She thought exasperatedly as she made her way over to Jimmy's, the head technician's, desk. Yet when she looked at his computer monitor, she immediately felt a small lump in her stomach rise, and all feelings of fatigue faded fast.

She was staring at a simple birds-eye map which featured a small red dot, the real-time location of the asset "Toxin's," cell phone. But instead of the dot being on a map of SoHo, which was supposed to be the location of Gesneria, or "Toxin," the dot was actually on a map labeled, "Queens."

"What, what is that?" Ryder asked.

"It's, uh-it's Queens. According to this, the asset is currently in Queens."

"Wait, what? Why is she in Queens?"

"I-uh, I don't know."

"Well, do me a favor and find out, okay? Send her a text or something."

"On it," Jimmy replied tersely, quickly banging out a text message on the computer and hitting, "Send."

A few nervous seconds passed. Ryder fidgeted uncomfortably. Rodgers paced the room. Protocol dictated that immediately after completing a task, an asset was supposed to immediately return home, and lie low, coding in to HQ, signifying that he or she had completed the task. Suddenly, that's when Ryder realized that the asset _hadn't_ called in, there never was a code in, she had been too focused on Redfern, and she hadn't thought through all of the steps. She had gotten sloppy.

Jimmy looked up at the big, red, digital clock near the doorway to the server room. A minute had passed. This wasn't good. Ordinarily, an asset should have replied _immediately,_ especially when they received a message from HQ.

"She hasn't replied yet."

"I know," Ryder replied, "I know."

_What the hell's going on?_

**New York City, New York- **Redfern carefully meandered through the city streets, eyes darting back and forth, incredibly alert, despite the intense exhaustion he was feeling. He knew now how close these people were to him. He had heard the screams coming from the main street earlier today, and took it to mean that they took Urich down. Who "they" were was an entirely different question, one which Redfern didn't have an answer to. While he did in fact know that the people who were targeting him were probably his "former employers," that didn't necessarily narrow down the list. While it's true he did phone them whenever a new agent was ready for field action that was the extent of social interaction he had with them. It was never more than that.

_And then there's this,_ he thought, withdrawing a flash drive from his pants pocket. While he did give Urich his suitcase filled with his notes on the progress of the various suits, he also held onto his flash drive, one which held evidence which might arguably be even _more_ damning than the notes Urich received. Far more damaging.

The reason why Redfern had held onto the drive was partly as an insurance policy. If he handed all of the notes over to Urich, then it was highly possible that the quest would have been extinguished. The notes would have been seized and the government could have him branded as a pariah, unable to gain any credulity. Because while he still remembered much of what he did in terms of the creating the suits, he knew that solid, concrete evidence would be needed to expose this operation. And what better thing to do than to have two different information repositories in order to preserve the evidence?

_But I still need another outlet for these files,_ he thought, staring at the flash drive. With Urich gone, he wasn't sure if he should try the _Bugle_ again, especially if they were watching the place now. _I better look elsewhere. But where?_ After rounding a corner,he looked up, and knew where to go.

**Queens, New York- **While panic was beginning to surface at the Cryptkeeper Headquarters, and while Redfern was wandering the streets, the rescue operation at the Watson residence was slowly unraveling.

Inside the house, almost all of the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents had been killed, with the exception of Carter and Murphy, as well as the Watson girl's mother. Randall was the latest victim of whatever was attacking them. He tried to go ahead after the creature vanished, in an attempt to clear the way for Mrs. Watson. Unfortunately, he was immediately swooped up by it, and nobody had seen him after that.

Carter, however, still attempted to retain her calm under pressure. Despite the fact most of her recon team was annihilated, she had squatted from behind an easy chair, monitoring this monster, hoping to figure out its patterns so she could devise an escape plan. Unfortunately, that had proven to be easier said than done. The creature, which she was beginning to suspect was Watson, had proved to be rather chaotic and unpredictable. At first, it had charged two of the agents, swiftly cutting them down. But now, now it was acting far stealthier, hiding in the shadows and patiently waiting. Furthermore, Carter was also experiencing an intense, nagging feeling that she wasn't the only one trying to figure out her opponent…

Glancing at her watch, she noticed that she only had two minutes left before a Hulkbuster unit burst through the door. _Wonderful_, she thought sarcastically. While she had never actually worn any of the Hulkbuster armor, she did know how powerful it was. According to S.H.I.E.L.D. agent James Woo, who had been a part of the unit that had taken down Harry Osborn, "It's like you're a flying tank. The suit was made to incapacitate the Hulk, so you know it's going to have a lot of firepower. Even after the training, you still can't get over it. When you're in the field, actually firing on a target, you can't help but feel like a god. You're like Thor."

Carter glanced down at her watch again. _One minute_. She peered up over the armrest of the chair. As her mind scrambled for an idea of how to get her, Murphy, and Mrs. Watson out of the house safely, she couldn't help but wonder if the Hulkbuster unit would be effective. She knew they were particularly potent against the conventional illegal genetic mutations, but this seemed different. Carter couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she had a bad feeling that something would go wrong.

After waiting a few more seconds, she glanced at her watch again.

_Thirty Seconds. _

Carter began to consider radioing Carson so he could tell command to hold off on the Hulkbuster raid. After all, it didn't look like she could safely extricate everybody from the house in time, so—

Carter suddenly felt something wrap around her legs, yanking her out of her train of thought, as well as her hiding spot. The monstrosity had grabbed her, and was now pulling her rapidly towards it. Carter's mind began to race as she looked around for a weapon- _anything_- to fend off this creature. Her own weapon was now lying uselessly by the armchair, next to her sunglasses, too far for her to reach. Beginning to realize that she might in fact die, she shouted for Murphy to get out of here.

"MURPHY! GET HER OUT OF HERE!"

Carter saw Murphy open the door, but after that, she was yanked around the corner and pulled into the kitchen. After she had reached the kitchen, she then felt her body being lifted up by the legs, and soon she was staring face-to-face with the creature that had cut down her team with such a ruthless efficiency. Staring at its ghastly visage had a numbing effect on her, which was why she didn't respond to any of Carson's desperate shouts to flee the house.

As she remained fixated on the monster's face, she noticed, out of the corner of her eye, the creature raise its free hand. Realizing that this was the end, that there was nothing more she could do, she closed her eyes, and began to pray.

Suddenly—

Carter heard the sound of smashing wood, and floodlights beginning to bathe the interior of the house in a harsh light. It was the Hulkbuster unit. Carter opened her eyes and attempted to turn around to get a better look to see where they were coming from. But before she knew what was happening, she was flying rapidly towards them. The creature had thrown her, like a projectile. The last thing Carter remembered was flying at a rapid velocity towards one of the bright lights on one of the Hulkbuster suits. After that, she hit the armor head on and blacked out.

_No._

Having just swung over the last house, that was the first thought that had entered Peter's head, upon seeing the large number of S.H.I.E.L.D. troops entering the home of the Watsons, dressed head to toe in Hulkbuster armor while the massive transport floated overhead, like some gargantuan spaceship, disgorging wave after wave of alien invaders, an eerie light from the transport bathing the house in an unnatural glow.

As Peter had followed the massive, otherworldly S.H.I.E.L.D. transport, he began to dread where it was headed, especially when it came to rest in the general area where Mary-Jane's house was located. Fearing for her safety, Peter had increased his speed, hoping to put to rest his fears, hoping that they were here for some other reason, something which didn't concern Mary-Jane Watson at all.

He had no idea how wrong he was.

After reaching the Watson's house, Peter rocketed directly towards MJ's bedroom window, peering inside to see if he could locate her. It was dark, but he could dimly make out the shape of her bed. It didn't look like anyone was in bed.

_Please God no!_

Beginning to approach a feverish panic, Peter yanked the window up, so hard that it actually was knocked out of the frame. Inserting himself quickly into her bedroom, he began to call out her name in a hushed manner.

_"Mary?" _

No answer.

_"Mary, it's me, Peter!" _

No answer.

_Oh God no. _

Peter, began to feel overcome with grief. Yet before he was completely consumed by it, there was still one last vestige of hope. Perhaps the S.H.I.E.L.D. troops evacuated her and her mother _before _they stormed her house! That has to be it! That _must _be it! Sincerely hoping that he was not being naïve, Peter decided to help the S.H.I.E.L.D. troops deal with whatever it was they were dealing with, so that, if what he thought was true, he would see Mary by the time this had all wrapped up. Thus after ensuring there was no one on the second floor, Peter slowly, silently made his way to the first floor, his spider powers enabling him to stick to the wall.

Unfortunately, Peter could not entirely banish horrid thoughts from his mind. While making his way to the source of the ruckus, he recalled the horrible, frightening red beast MJ had been transformed into thanks to one his own clones. These suits these troops wore, they were very similar to ones Nick Fury and a few others wore when they took down Harry Osborn. What if-

_No, _Peter thought, _I can't let myself get into that kind of thinking. I just have to hope that Mary's all right, and-_

Peter instantaneously felt his spider-sense buzz, like an oversized buzzer. Thinking quickly, Peter leaped off of the wall, hitting the floor with an "Oomph," watching out of the corner of his eye as an energy beam vaporized the area of the wall where his head had been not a moment ago, lighting up the dark and ominous house.

After the blast subsided, Peter peered around the wall near the staircase to see what he was up against. What he saw caught him off guard at first, leaving him speechless.

It was chaos. Pure chaos. That was the only way to actually describe it. All around, Peter could see the awesome damage wreaked both by S.H.I.E.L.D. and whatever it was they were fighting. The walls were all but gone, burn marks in some places, enormous tears in other places, reducing the wallpaper to shreds, as though there was a wild animal on the loose. Adding to the total destruction and annihilation of the house were numerous corpses scattered around, the half-light coming off of the Hulkbuster armor's floodlight illuminating deep cuts, pond-sized pools of blood, and weapons, lying uselessly on the floor. Noticing another source of illumination, Peter turned to see periodic flashes being emitted from the weapons of other S.H.I.E.L.D. members, several of them almost hitting him.

"Manishevitz," he shouted, evading the blasts. "Hey! Watch where you're pointing those oversize flashlights!"

Peter began to wonder, after getting to some cover, whether he really should have come, much less jumped into the midst of a battle with little to no idea of what he was facing, much less why it was in this particular house. _I'm gonna regret this,_ he thought, squatting behind some overturned furniture. Perhaps the only solace he had right now was that there was no hulking red figure in the brawl, which caused him much relief since he knew that MJ couldn't have been a part of this. It just wasn't possible.

After a few more seconds of quick thinking, he determined the best way to end this was to get this out in the open, where he would have a better chance of ending the battle more expediently. Problem was, he didn't know _what_ exactly they were fighting.

After sneaking a few more quick glances, he began to make out a quick-moving form. While Peter couldn't describe exactly what it was (due to the nature of the lighting), he did know it was fast, even by his standards. It was amazing to watch it move acrobatically through the bulky troops, leaping over them, using some of them as shields, and overall just running circles around them, who weren't able to move as efficiently. Peter assumed this was because of their armor and the close quarters in which they were fighting.

Regardless of how impressive it was, Peter also assumed it was reason so many S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel were dead, lying in heaps around him. Counting down, Peter aimed his left hand in the general area where the creature was, buried in the midst of the numerous hulking, armored forms. After waiting a few seconds more, he fired off a web toward its general direction, luckily hitting it in the exact area where he wanted it to go: its face.

_Got ya!_

Not knowing how fast its response time would be, Peter quickly yanked it towards his location, hoping the S.H.I.E.L.D. troops wouldn't start firing at _him._ Watching the creature hurtle towards him, Peter leaned back, prepared to punch it, and-

-the web line went taught. Unfortunately, it had other plans. Thinking just as quickly as Peter had, it rapidly dug its clawed feet into one of the walls, using its hands to grab the web attached to its face, ripping it off, and then pulling on it, reversing the momentum, pulling Peter towards it.

"Great," was all he could say before he was ripped off his feet with a startling speed, hurtling towards the creature with little to no way to stop himself.

_Smack._

The creature had backhanded him, causing him to fly headfirst into the kitchen, smashing into one of the chairs lining the kitchen table. Peter felt something warm in his mouth, and took it to mean that he was bleeding. Spotting the creature lunging towards him, Peter quickly back flipped out of the way, landing on the wall where the kitchen clock was. Problem was, he didn't clear the clock entirely, as he felt his right shoulder smash into the glass cover, resulting in him letting out of shout of pain. _Great, now I've got glass in my shoulder._ But before he could collect his thoughts any further, he felt his spider-sense buzz rather loudly, noticing in the moonlight as several bladed items flew towards him. With little room to maneuver, Peter leapt off from the wall and angled his body so none of the blades would penetrate him.

_God this thing's fast, _he thought, as the blades jammed into the wall behind him, his costume now perforated with small rips, _gotta keep it moving._

Having several near-misses, Peter was now very determined to wrap this up before anyone else got hurt, including him. At first Peter thought it would be a good idea to try and swing him and the monstrosity outside. It turned out, however, that the creature had the same idea, hitting Peter's chest with one of its own webs before pulling him towards it.

But this time he was ready. Thinking quickly, Peter angled his body so his feet would connect with the creature's head. And connect they did. With a sickening _thwok_ Peter felt the impact of the blow, causing it to become off-balance, teetering slightly, allowing him to gain the upper hand.

Landing on both of his feet, he was just about to web the creature to the floor when suddenly a bright light entered the room, accompanied by the authoritative command of:

"FREEZE!"

Peter quickly spun his head around, noticing the remainder of S.H.I.E.L.D. troops had made their way to the kitchen, the lights from their helmets shining on Peter and the abomination, their weapons pointed at both of them.

Before he could explain himself yet again, the creature had swiftly grabbed him with one of its clawed feet and flung him out of the back window, smashing glass, before he clumsily landed in MJ's backyard, parts of his costume torn and ripped to pieces, his head incredibly murky.

"Ugh," he muttered, lifting part of his mask so he could spit out some of the blood that was pooling in his mouth, "that…that did not go well."

Peter tried standing up but promptly fell down, his head still spinning. Looking up, he noticed multiple energy beams coming from the kitchen, a few of them even shattering the other kitchen windows. _Hope S.H.I.E.L.D._ _has enough money to pay for all of this_, he thought bemusedly, waiting for his head to clear. Looking around, he noticed many of the surrounding houses had their lights on, and there were even a couple neighbors outside, wielding flashlights in order to determine what exactly was going on. Realizing that the neighbors seeing Spider-Man here would not look good, Peter stood up rather clumsily and managed to crawl back into the house, carefully avoiding bits of jagged glass. As he surveyed his surroundings, he noticed that there were even more corpses than before. _Wonderful_, he thought to himself, making his way to where the fight was progressing, _and I think I've still got glass in my shoulder_—

_**"AAAIIRRREEEEE!"**_

That bizarre, alien shriek caused Peter to quicken his pace, allowing him to approach the source of the sound, the Watson's living room, in no time. After he rounded the corner, what he saw immediately caused him to feel extremely queasy, confused, and very dizzy, forcing him to clutch one of the walls to steady himself.

What he saw, in the middle of the Watson's living room, was Mary-Jane Watson, tears welling up within her eyes as she stood over the lifeless body of her mother.


	14. Promises

**Queens, New York – **On the floor of the Watson's household, in the hallway connecting the kitchen to the foyer, S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Sharon Carter swam in and out of consciousness. After being used as a projectile by the creature against the invading Hulkbuster unit, Carter had been knocked out for quite some time, having sustained a painful concussion from one of the Hulkbuster suits. Fortunately, she had also been spared the horrific onslaught, given how she was half-buried by the sheer number of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, which had been ruthlessly mowed down only moments ago.

Unfortunately, it sounded as though the battle was still going on, judging by the shouts, the energy blasts, and the breaking of the house's interior.

Fighting against the throbbing concussion on her head, as well as resisting the urge to black out again, Carter extricated herself from the mound of bodies that she was surrounded by, no small feat; given how almost all of them, with the exception of her original team, were wearing Hulkbuster armor. Despite the durability of the armor, it seemed as though it was for naught when faced by this particular creature, Carter noted grimly, looking around at the level of bloodshed.

It was sickening, really, and Carter found she was having a difficult time trying not to throw up, given how she had never seen so much carnage. Everywhere she looked, there seemed to be mounds upon mounds of corpses, all awash in blood, which seemed to be all over the place. Many of the floodlights on the Hulkbuster suits were cracked, and some of them had even been smashed, leaving the whole house in an eerie lighting scheme, with wild shadows being thrown up everywhere. Carter did not dare to look too closely at any of the bodies, in case they were someone she knew, not to mention she was trying very hard not to black out again, which would have almost certainly happened if Carter scrutinized any of the injuries of her fellow S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel. Fighting revulsion, she searched around for a weapon, finally forcing herself to make do with a small Taser of sorts, the secondary weapon for all Hulkbuster units.

As she made her way to the source of all of the noise and ruckus, taking care to not step on any bodies and forced to take the long way around to the living room, due to a large pile of debris and bodies, Carter couldn't help but think of how Danvers was going to react to the enormous loss of life after this was over. Although Carter had not actually counted, there seemed to be far more bodies than any previous incident, including the one in which thirty-five employees of S.H.I.E.L.D. were killed by Norman Osborn, Flint Marko, Otto Octavius, and a few others. As Carter neared the sounds, she suddenly realized where they were coming from. The living room, the place where she had last left Mrs. Watson and Agent Murphy. Desperately hoping that they were not in the house any longer, Carter began to increase her pace, running to the living room. Unfortunately, she had just managed to avoid two more soldiers in Hulkbuster armor, who crashed into the wall behind her, when she saw purple blur slice through Mrs. Watson's neck, who for some reason, was standing in the middle of the pandemonium.

"NO!" She shouted, but it was too late. Mrs. Watson toppled backwards, blood besmirching her once pristine pink bathrobe.

Carter, who could not bear to watch, turned away and closed her eyes, muttering a curse under her breath. No sooner had she turned away did she hear a horrific, alien shriek.

_**"AAAIIRRREEEEE!"**_

Assuming it was the creature, Carter forced herself to turn back to this hideous scene, knowing that, since she was the senior-most agent, she would be the one who would have to lead the arrest. But what happened next confirmed her suspicions regarding who this loathsome aberration was.

After the horrible shriek by this monster, the face of the thing slowly dissolved, revealing a young, red-headed girl, whose face was in shock and horror.

"Mom?" She whispered, before sinking down on her knees.

_Oh my God, _Carter thought, horrified by the scene, yet unable to look away, even though she had already suspected that this girl was the creature in question.

As Mary-Jane Watson crawled towards the now-dead body of her own mother, realization started setting in as the nightmarish beast, which had plagued the entire S.H.I.E.L.D. team only moments earlier, retreated back into MJ's skin, vanished like some sort of awful demon, banished back to the netherworld.

"Mom? No mom, no…don't—don't—" MJ sobbed, as tears began to flow freely from her eyes, "Don't _leave me_."

But it was too late. She was already gone.

Unable to hold back her grief any longer, MJ cried, her shoulders shaking, bobbing up and down as she covered her face with her hands, unable and unwilling to do anything else except shriek, in a voice which Carter ultimately pitied, the word "Mommy."

While Carter wished for nothing more than to let the child grieve, the remaining members of the Hulkbuster unit had managed to recover from their initial shock, raising their energy weapons at the young girl, who looked to Carter to be no more than fifteen or sixteen years of age. One of the soldiers then raised his voice to the others, and simply said, "Take her."

Two of the soldiers in Hulkbuster armor then approached MJ, one of them wielding reinforced shackles. Carter, not about to let the girl leave her mother yet, pocketed her newfound weapon with one hand and reached into her other pocket for her badge, shouting towards the head soldier, "Not so fast! I'm Sharon Carter, and I'll be leading this operation!"

The soldier who was in charge appeared to be startled by her sudden appearance, even though his eyes were covered by a blast shield.

"I'm sorry ma'am; I thought you were killed in action."

"Well, evidently not, otherwise I'd be lying somewhere else," she snapped, jerking her thumb towards the two soldiers who had been asked to apprehend MJ, "Don't do this. Not yet."

"Wait, what?" The soldier said, evidently confused. "Why? She-she mowed down at least _half_ of our team, maybe more. If we don't get her now-"

Carter cut her off. "You think I don't realize that? I do. I know we have to…" She stopped, staring back at MJ, who appeared to remain unaware of what was transpiring around her, now holding her mother's head, tears still flowing freely. "…take her in. I know. But not yet."

The soldier made a motion with his left hand, recalling the other two soldiers. Then, he said to Carter, as she turned to go, "Very well. We'll give her _five minutes_, but then I think you better give the order to clean up. Civilians are here and that means local law enforcement, and—"

"I know," Carter said, turning back to look at the soldier one last time.

"Ma'am?"

"Yes?"

"Any reason why you don't want to…" He paused, and then jerked his head towards MJ's direction.

Carter sighed before answering the soldier's question. "She just killed her own mother. I'd want some time to grieve as well."

And with that, she headed upstairs.

Peter Parker was devastated. Having rushed back inside the house after hearing a scream, he soon found himself staring in the Watson's living room, where MJ, in the middle of a group of burly, armored troops, bathed in the harsh floodlights from the Hulkbuster suits, had broken down completely, sobbing uncontrollably, barely able to gasp for a breath. He had also witnessed the intervention of Carter, who had not seen him, given the lighting of the house and her determination to let MJ mourn. Although it did not take long for Peter's shock to turn to anger. Unfortunately, the anger did not allow Peter to think straight which meant that he was looking for someone to vent to. And as of right now, the people who were the prime targets for his rage were right in this house. And he knew right where to start.

After waiting for Carter to traverse the house and make her way upstairs, Peter followed, not wanting to be noticed by any of the other S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, in case they decided they wanted to question him. After leaping effortlessly to the second floor and landing relatively silently, he heard a voice. It was Carter, and it sounded as though she was talking to someone, and it was coming from MJ's bedroom.

Peter, still in his costume, albeit with some rips and tears in the fabric, stealthily approached MJ's bedroom. Looking inside, he saw Carter was looking out the window Peter had broken only moments earlier. Carter had a cell phone to her ear, and she was speaking into it, talking to someone, presumably, at the Triskelion. Peter however, had no patience for Carter. Walking briskly towards her, he yanked the cell phone out of her hand and flung it across the room, where it shattered upon making contact with the wall.

Carter spun around, irritated. "Hey, what—"

Peter, not letting her finish her sentence, grabbed the lapels of her trench coat and lifted her off of the ground, slamming her into one of the walls.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Carter hissed. "Are you out of your mind?"

"Shut up," Peter responded angrily, making sure that the troops below didn't hear anything, "Just shut up! What the hell are you people doing here? MJ hasn't done anything wrong!"

Carter, who was not about to get roughed up by a kid wearing a brightly colored costume, grabbed Peter's hands. "Put. Me. Down," she said, with a note of menace in her voice.

Peter and Carter stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, Peter acquiesced, letting Carter drop to the floor roughly. Peter stared intensely at her through his mask, with her rumpled jacket, her bruises, and her tousled hair as she slowly managed to get up, their eye contact never breaking. After Carter brushed back her bright red hair with one of her hands, she then asked: "So what do you want?"

Peter, who a few seconds ago, was angrily confronting a senior agent of S.H.I.E.L.D., was now rendered mute by his rage, no matter how wrongly displaced it was. A few more seconds passed. The silence seemed interminable. Finally, Carter, realizing the boy's grief, relaxed her features, taking on the appearance of a more sentimental figure instead of a harsher authority figure.

"Look Peter," she said, hoping to soothe him, "I'm sorry about what happened tonight. Really, I am."

"You're sorry?" Peter replied angrily, not considering for a moment how she knew his name. "Well, that's great and all, except _I'm _not the one who just watched her mother die!"

Carter took a deep breath. This was going to be difficult, calming him down. "Kid, do you think this is how I _wanted_ it to go? I wanted it to be as smooth as possible, with no casualties. Unfortunately, it doesn't always work—"

Peter tore off his mask, revealing a face which was either brimming with tears, or was merely bloody. Carter couldn't tell, given the poor lighting in the room. Regardless, she could sense a certain anger and indignation on his face, due to the fact that his girlfriend was now downstairs, crying for the loss of her mother. "Casualties? That's all you can think about, is how _unfortunate_ it is that MJ's mom was a _casualty_ to your operation? Seriously, I want to know something about S.H.I.E.L.D., do they-do _you_ care at all about all of the lives you've ruined? Do you have any kind of idea just how much you've screwed up my life and the life of everyone around me? The lives of everyone I care about?"

Carter was taken aback. "Excuse me," she bristled. "Is that what you think of us? You think that everything we've done, everything we've done for _you_, is just because all of us are so _gung-ho_? That we don't care about anyone? _We_ didn't kill Mrs. Watson, her own daughter did, and on top of that, she killed who knows how many people downstairs! They weren't just robots. They aren't just automatons. These are _people_, with families, with their own children, with mothers and fathers. And now, we have to inform each and every one of them that their son, or their daughter, or their wife or their husband _won't_ be coming home. And believe me, there's nothing worse than receiving a letter from us telling them how a significant other is _dead_. And on top of that, we can't even tell them how they died, or who killed them, because it's all confidential! So do me a favor, and _don't _say that we don't care. It pains me every time when I hear of letters like those being sent out."

Peter, after listening to Carter's lengthy rebuttal, seemed ready to hit Carter right in the face. But he never did, instead choosing to sit glumly on MJ's vacant bed, staring at the floor. Carter, again troubled by Peter's demeanor, cautiously approached him. She attempted to place her arm on Peter's shoulder in a consoling fashion, but hesitated, ultimately thinking it was best to leave him alone. Instead, she sat down at MJ's desk, and after a few more moments of silence, said, "Listen. What happened tonight, I'm very, very sorry. I was…_responsible,_ for Mrs. Watson's safety, and, and I blew it. I'm sorry."

"What—," a pause. "What's going to happen to her now?"

"Which one?"

"MJ. What's going to happen to MJ?"

Carter took another deep breath. This was not going to be easy. "We…we're going to have to take her in."

"Wait…what? Why?" Peter asked, taking his hands off of his face and looking up at Carter.

Carter did not reply immediately, choosing to instead reach into her trench coat and pull out a manila folder, filled with a series of documents. "The reason why we have to take her in is because of everything that took place downstairs. Also, we originally came here to question her about the attempted murder of Benjamin Urich."

"What?" Peter asked quickly, eyes widening.

"It's true," Carter said, with much resignation. "We found a _lot_ of DNA evidence linking her to the crime scene. Scores of it. There was a gun, a backpack which belonged to her, vomit, it all matches up, and it's all in here," she said, peering at the manila folder she now held.

Peter was shocked. "That-that's impossible. She, she never did any of that stuff! MJ's never handled a gun before! And-and the creature, that couldn't have been MJ! I _know her_, and I know that that isn't MJ!"

Carter peered at Peter through the near-darkness, the floodlights of the massive S.H.I.E.L.D. transport hovering over the house backlit Peter, sparing her from seeing his facial expression. He was in denial, obviously. There was nothing more Carter could say or do.

"I'm sorry kid, but those are the rules."

"But-but…"

"It's the way it has to be."

Peter lowered his head in despair. He had lost MJ. His girlfriend. Gone for who knows how long. Carter looked at Peter hang his head in sorrow, and wished she could say something more, wished that she could somehow console him. But a glance at her watch informed her that MJ's five minutes of mourning were almost up. They had to get going. As she made her way to the door, Peter called to her.

"Hey."

Carter stopped, and swiveled her head to face Peter, alone in the dark.

"Yes?"

"Before you go, I want you to make a promise to me."

"A promise?" Carter replied in question. _This can't be good._ As a federal officer, she shouldn't really be making promises to teenage costumed heroes.

"I want you to promise…to promise that you'll…you'll watch over her, that you'll make sure that nothing happens to her."

Carter hesitated. She couldn't do this.

"Please," Peter pleaded. "I don't want to," he stopped, not wanting to say the words. "I don't want to…_lose her_."

Carter sighed. Despite the fact that she knew she should _not_ promise him anything, despite the fact that almost every part of her professional persona screamed at her to _not_ consent, Carter relented, agreeing to his request. She quite simply felt bad for him. "Sure kid. I'll watch her for you."

"Thank you," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

Carter, knowing full well she should return downstairs immediately, nevertheless felt as though she should offer Peter a ride to his house, to preserve his identity. Yet when she asked him, he replied with a, "No thanks. I-I think I need to be by myself for a little bit." Carter then wished him a safe journey, and watched as he put his mask back upon his head, and swing out of the window, using the S.H.I.E.L.D. transport as an anchor point to swing from MJ's house to the house across the street. Carter watched him go, and then headed back to the stairs, before running into the S.H.I.E.L.D. soldier who seemed to command all of the other Hulkbuster troops.

"Alright, let's wrap this up."

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. – **Sarah Ryder was horrified. Absolutely horrified. Everything seemed to have suddenly gone up in flames. After the failed attempt in making contact with Toxin, she returned to her office, where Ryder had almost immediately received some intercepted police radio traffic from the Queens borough of New York City. Apparently, S.H.I.E.L.D. had flown one of its troop transports to the Queens area to assist in the arrest and apprehension of some sort of "genetic anomaly." The possibility that the "genetic anomaly" they were after was in fact Ryder's missing "asset," troubled her so much that she asked Rodgers to run a cross-analysis to determine if any of the intercepted radio traffic had lined up with the real-time location of the asset's cell phone. Unfortunately, the reports from the police channels had lined up perfectly with the location of the asset's cell phone. Yet the worst moment was still to come.

After receiving the corroborating reports, Ryder soon received another one, which was by far the worst news she had received all day. According to the radio dispatches, S.H.I.E.L.D. had in fact apprehended the culprit and had taken her into custody.

_Oh shit,_ Ryder thought, _this is bad._

Given how any other recourse or plan of action seemed to be relatively unlikely, Ryder determined that she really had no choice but to go and see the Director of the CIA and inform him of the present circumstances as well as the possible fallout. Therefore, she reluctantly grabbed her coat, threw it on, and headed towards the elevator, files relevant to the mission tucked under her arm, thinking that it would probably be better if she spoke to him in person about this instead of over the telephone. As she made her way to the elevator, Rodgers fell right into step with her.

"What's going on?" She asked Ryder.

"I'm going to see the Director."

This stopped Rodgers in her path. "What?"

Ryder stopped as well and turned to face her assistant. "I'm going to see the Director. We screwed up, and I have to warn him about the possible fallout before he gets a phone call from say, the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D."

Rodgers stared at the floor, rubbing her chin while contemplating this new course of action. Then, after a few moments, she stared back up at Ryder. "Are you sure you have to do this?"

"Positive," Ryder replied grimly. "I made a promise to the Director when I took this post that nothing would be leaked, that there would be no problems, and unfortunately, it would appear as though I have failed."

A few more moments of relative silence elapsed in that hallway. Neither of them had anything more to say. Eventually, Ryder, who had made sure she received all of the case files regarding both their lost asset and Redfern, made her way to the elevator, entered, and pressed the button for the ground floor. After reaching the bottom floor, she then got into a waiting town car, and rode off to Langley, not anticipating what was in store for her or the operation she ran.

_Writer's Note: So there you have it. The first story arc tidily wrapped up, and in no less than 14 chapters! Anyways, this chapter was a bit of a downer, but things WILL pick up again in the next few chapters! Anyways, feel free to R&R, and Happy New Year! _


	15. Briefing

**The Triskelion, New York City, New York – **Carol Danvers reclined slightly in her office chair, taking a small break from reading the numerous briefs before her to look out at the panoramic windows, allowing her to view New York City from afar. Ordinarily, the sun would be shining brightly outside, illuminating her office. Unfortunately, it was quite an overcast day, with a large cloud cover obscuring the sun's rays, lending a mood of melancholy to the current task at hand. The time, according to her computer, was 11:40 AM, which meant she only had twenty more minutes before having to move on to the next part of her rigorous schedule as Acting Director of S.H.I.E.L.D.

What Danvers was currently scrutinizing were a series of briefs, which essentially detailed the progress of the federal bureaucracy's numerous detainees regarding their recovery on both a genetic as well as a psychological level. Initially, Danvers had held an hour meeting at this time during her first few days on the job, so she could be brought up to speed on the overall workings of the rehabilitation program. She soon determined though, that it was a waste of time, given how the likelihood of a breakthrough on any one of the prisoners was rather slim, given how some of them were not viewed as being psychologically stable, while others were in fact mutants, which meant that a genetic recovery was quite impossible.

She would have to stop reading though, given how she was expecting someone shortly. While Danvers may have no longer convened meetings, she still thought it would be practical to be briefed in person by Agent Sharon Carter and Doctor Curt Conners about Mary-Jane Watson's current prognosis, given how she was their newest prisoner and therefore it would be more beneficial for her to hear directly from those supervising the Watson girl's progress, instead of in the form of a simple status report.

It had been four days since "The Watson Incident," as it was now officially being called. Four Days had passed since Mary-Jane Watson had killed forty S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel and one civilian, her own mother, while in an "altered genetic state," as the certified report stated. The deaths of these forty people had not weighed lightly on Danvers. After considering the carnage of that awful night, she could not help but think grimly to herself; _At least I beat Fury in the casualty record_, bringing to mind the moment in which Norman Osborn, Otto Octavius, Flint Marko, Max Dillon, and, of course, "Kraven the Hunter," escaped from a S.H.I.E.L.D. compound in Virginia, killing thirty-five employees. Statistics aside, it was the consequences of that particular evening, where she had authorized sending in more than one Hulkbuster unit to their deaths, which had resulted in Danvers' viewpoint that today was going to be a particularly bleak day, a perspective aided by the weather outside. Regardless, she could not allow herself to become lost in self-doubt and self-pity. She was the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Therefore, she turned her attention back to the task at hand and allowed her secretary to usher in both Conners and Carter into her office.

As soon as they had both entered the room, Danvers could not help but notice just how quickly Carter seemed to have recovered from her wounds. While she still retained several bruises on her face, in addition to the lengthy scar that ran from the left side of her forehead to her right cheek, she still looked far better than before, her rumpled trench coat replaced by an incredibly professional suit, black tie contrasting sharply with her crisp, white dress shirt, and her brilliantly red hair combed and washed, every single hair in place.

"Director Danvers?"

Danvers' observations regarding Carter were interrupted by Doctor Conners, the one-armed doctor who had been transferred to the Triskelion as per Tony Stark's instructions, with the intention of Conners serving out the remainder of his prison sentence assisting S.H.I.E.L.D. in the study of their numerous "illegal, unnatural, genetic mutations." While this was initially Stark's idea, Danvers had in fact backed it completely, later deciding to keep Conners instead of allowing him to return to Ryker's. This was something Conners was perfectly comfortable with, given his desire to continue working, as well as hopefully stem the guilt he constantly felt with the accidental creation of the monster that had murdered several civilians before the timely intervention of Peter Parker. Still, Conners would have to admit that it was a first for him to be personally briefing the director of one of the newest and most powerful American federal bureaucracies.

"Yes Doctor? What do you have for me?"

"Well Director," Conners replied, digging through his file folder, "allow me to cut right to the chase. Unless we manage to get a psychological evaluation of the Watson girl, it is highly unlikely that we will be able to successfully rehabilitate her and remove the parasitic organism that has attached itself to her, both in the body and, presumably, the mind."

"What do you mean?" Danvers asked, somewhat blindsided by the sudden outpouring of information.

Carter took this as her cue. As she had promised, she was now "responsible" for Mary-Jane Watson, having volunteered to be the agent supervising her recovery. "Allow me to explain. After we brought her back here, and after we ran a few blood tests, Conners-"

"_Doctor_ Conners."

Although mildly peeved by Conners' interruption, she pressed on. "Anyways, after bringing her in, we immediately took some blood samples, and, after some analysis by a team of specialists led by…_Doctor_ Conners, we came to the realization that the probability of Watson being able to survive a separation procedure with the suit was virtually impossible."

Danvers did not reply immediately, choosing to instead lean forward slightly in her chair, eyeing both of them. "So, what I'm hearing is that we may have yet another Harry Osborn on our hands?"

Carter looked down on the ground and scratched the back of her head. Conners continued to look through his files, oblivious to Danvers' comment. Harry Osborn was a particularly sore spot for Danvers, since it was under her watch when Harry was killed. Adding insult to injury was the fact that S.H.I.E.L.D. suffered an unmitigated public relations fiasco at the hands of Norman Osborn, who went on one of the news channels and promptly began to fabricate a story in which Nick Fury and S.H.I.E.L.D. were the culprits responsible for transforming Osborn into his more monstrous alter-ego. This in turn led to Danvers experiencing the very first scolding of her career at the hands of the President of the United States, a debacle which, in addition to the massive amounts of property damage, the public-relations fallout that had since ensued, and the fact that Osborn later killed his own son, left Danvers on the verge of a nervous breakdown, all on her first few days as the new Director. Needless to say, she was not particularly comfortable with holding yet another minor with powers that she could not control for any length of time within the Triskelion, especially since there seemed to be no way of knowing whether or not she was in control of these new powers at the time of the incident.

"Again, I want to know: Does this mean that I'm going to have another 'Harry Osborn' on my hands?"

Carter was about to reply but was stopped by Conners, who found the report he was looking for within his file folder and had thrust it in Danvers' direction. "Here it is, Director. That's the report I wrote up which details just how tightly bonded Watson is to the suit."

Danvers, despite just skimming the report since her schedule wouldn't allow her to read it in its entirety, found it deeply troublesome. According to the report, the suit was now "fully integrated with the subject," as, "mass quantities of the parasite have been discovered within the bloodstream, leading to the possibility that the parasite may in fact be a part of her DNA structure." Danvers, who was now deeply concerned about the likelihood of removing the parasitic suit, looked up from the report and asked: "How is this possible?"

"What do you mean?"

"The…uh…the DNA. How is it possible that the suit has already become that tightly bonded to her? I thought that it was highly unlikely that the suit would be capable of doing that, becoming part of the host's DNA, since it needs to feed constantly."

"Ah," said Conners, understanding now. "Well, to tell you the truth, this particular suit isn't the original. In fact, this is probably the most advanced iteration of the suit I have ever seen."

Danvers was rather surprised by this little revelation. "Are you serious?"

Conners nodded. "Absolutely. It's really quite fascinating, after I spent some time analyzing the samples. The amount of workmanship and effort that went into this is truly astounding; leading me to believe that whoever made it must have had some serious financial backing. Not to mention I have actually discovered a series of small venom-like sacs, leading me to believe—"

"Sorry to interrupt you Doctor Conners," Danvers said, checking her computer's clock, "but I have to attend another meeting in ten minutes, and I would appreciate it if you and Agent Carter could wrap up the briefing."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," Conners said, visibly embarrassed. "I sometimes get a bit worked up and could just go on and on about these kinds of—"

"Get to the point, please."

"Right," he said, shifting slightly in his chair. "What I guess I was trying to say is that, upon a closer inspection of Watson's DNA, it turns out that she was in fact exposed to OZ, something which is supported by her case file, which resulted in her body being able to naturally produce the stuff and forever altering her so that the OZ is now part of her DNA. Anyways, that's bad, judging by her prior incidents, accumulating all of that OZ, but what the suit has done now, which I find quite remarkable, is really stabilize her by consuming the OZ her body produces. It eats it and absorbs it, nullifying any sort of negative effects the OZ may have had on her while at the same time providing a reliable source of nutrition for the suit. Basically, it's the perfect example of symbiosis, with a 'win-win' for both the host and the parasite."

Danvers, who had since collected all of the materials she required for the next meeting, then asked in reply, "So this means that the suit won't be easy to remove from her, if at all?"

Conners took a deep breath before replying. "Probably. The biggest problem here is disrupting the source of nutrition for the suit, as there is no incentive for it to find a new host. Also, there is the concern that even if we do manage to disrupt the food source, who's to say it doesn't consume Watson herself? And while there are already plenty of complications on a physical level, we have no idea just how many barriers there may be on a mental level."

"Wait, why?" Haven't you done any psych evaluations?"

"Well ma'am, we have _attempted_ to do several psych evaluations, Carter said, determined to get a final word in before Danvers left. "The problem is she has not opened up to us. We've tried to get her to write in a journal, to talk with a professional psychologist, everything. She has so far remained unresponsive, which I admit to finding slightly concerning, since that may mean she is contemplating suicide."

"Are you sure about that?" Danvers asked.

"No ma'am," was Carter's reply, as she poured herself a glass of water from a pitcher on Danvers' desk. "Not one-hundred-percent. But judging by the traumatic events she has undergone in the past, in addition to the murder of her mother, not to mention whatever the suit may have done to her head, and I'm pretty certain that there is a good chance she might try."

"I see," said Danvers, quickly glancing at her computer clock. Five minutes left. "And do either of you have a solution to this?"

"I think so," Carter responded. "Given how the other approaches haven't worked, Doctor Conners thought it might be a good idea to bring in someone who she was intimately familiar with. A friend, really, since it doesn't seem as though there are any other family members in the vicinity, and the father has apparently become estranged from the family."

"Okay. Who did you have in mind?"

"Peter Parker," was Carter's prompt reply. "We decided on him because, well, he seemed to be the best available option given how he and Watson are boyfriend and girlfriend. Not to mention the fact that most of what has happened to her in the past stems almost directly from her relation with Parker, which means that they may have a rather strong bond of shared experiences between the two of them, which would hopefully allow us to establish a path into her psyche."

"Sounds fine to me," Danvers said, glancing one last time at the clock. One minute. "You have my permission to bring him in, but try to keep most of the details regarding this case from him, since he's still a civilian. And make sure you both have a status report regarding Watson's progress at this same time next week."

And with that final comment, Carol Danvers left for her next meeting.

_Writer's Note: Hooray for fluff! Seriously though, I am trying to aim for a slightly more "slow-burn" scenario, so please give it some time to grow and expand. Anyways, a quick shout-out to 1WiththeButterfly. I look forward to reading your review! As for the rest of you, you know the drill: R&R and I'll see you next time! _


	16. Grief Counseling

**Midtown High School, New York City, New York-** The trilling of the school bell snapped Peter out of his trance. He was currently sitting in the library, poring over the information laid out before him, with a computer monitor displaying the results of a Google Search. Peering at the computer's clock, he saw with alarm that he only had five minutes left to arrive at his next class before he was officially considered late. _Great,_ he thought, _and I haven't even packed up anything._

Peter had decided to skip lunch today, choosing to hide in the library instead, away from his friends. He noticed the looks he was receiving from Kitty in English and had ignored them, not really wanting to talk to her about what had happened. Midtown, at the end of day, was just like any other high school, in that rumors had no doubt spread about MJ's mysterious disappearance. After all, if Peter's Aunt May knew something horrible had happened at the Watson household, than it was pretty likely that most the high school population was similarly aware. Therefore, Peter decided it was probably best to avoid the raucous cafeteria, since he had a feeling that every single eyeball would be glued on him if he entered, given how most of the school was aware of his relationship with MJ.

What he had been scrutinizing before the bell rang were a series of documents and charts which he had retrieved from the suitcase of "Charlie," the individual who called Urich to meet up with him at a _Starbucks_ café. After Urich was gunned down by MJ, Peter had worked quickly, snatching the suitcase and stashing it next his clothes, hidden on a nearby rooftop, while he swung around as Spider-Man, searching in vain for the assailant. Now that Peter had the time to sit down and examine the documents, he found the clues were making little to no sense, confounding him as much as drawing him in further, with a determination to figure out who might be responsible.

While Peter may not have known all of the specific details of the documents held before him, he was beginning to realize that the "subjects," referred to in the reports, each with their own code-name, appeared to be more advanced copies of his father's prototype suit. With descriptors such as, "organic webbing capability," and, "enhanced resistance to conventional firearms," this assumption began to make more and more sense. Needless to say, this revelation filled him both with dread for MJ and with the hope that this clue would lead to his discovery of who was responsible for transforming MJ into a programmed assassin. Were Peter not already numb from all of the tragedy that had engulfed him four days ago, Peter might have been able to muster outrage at the continuing number of people who have stolen and exploited his father's work. But as of now, all he could muster was weary indignation.

Unfortunately, Peter's ability to make a correlation between the "subjects," in the various reports with his own father's attempted cancer cure was the only discovery he had managed to make. Everything else made no sense. All of the references to an "Operation Cryptkeeper," or to an "Octagon," returned nonsensical search results on Google, with the only links leading to Horror websites and to websites discussing geometry. Even if he had found a credible link, Peter no longer had the time to do any further research. He now only had four minutes to get to class, and the hallways always seemed notoriously crowded at this time. So after Peter had logged off, he quickly shuffled all of the photocopies of the reports into several respective folders and sprinted towards the library door.

As Peter burst out of the library doors, he found that the hallway he had planned on taking was just as crowded as he had predicted. _Wonderful,_ he thought. _Now I'm going to have to sprint to class, which I don't mind doing when I don't have to worry about-_

Peter's thoughts came to an abrupt stop as he rounded the corner and crashed head-on with Jessica Jones, causing both of them to hit the floor, sending both of their papers and folders straight into the air, like a sudden snowstorm, before gently drifting to the floor around them.

"Ow!" Jessica said, slowly sitting up. "What is your problem?"

Peter, still momentarily startled by the collision, did not immediately answer. He found it rather odd that his spider-sense had failed him, only to realize that it hadn't failed him. He had just been tuning it out.

"Watch where you're going next time," Jessica snapped angrily, her pierced face glaring angrily at the sophomore sprawled out before her as she rapidly began gathering her school supplies.

Though Peter hadn't suffered any injuries, at least compared to a typical superhero brawl, he still rubbed his head and mumbled out a simplistic "Sorry," in hopes of placating the irate high school senior.

But Jessica would have none of it. She finished scooping up the last of the papers and briskly walked past Peter, without so much as a second glance.

_Ugh,_ Peter thought to himself as he clumsily scooped up all of the papers and folders, _now I'm definitely going to be late._

**Queens, New York- **As Peter was slowly walking home; he found that his mind was still drawn to what he had deduced during his lunch break, instead of the fact that he was now _one_ tardy slip away from getting yet another detention. While Peter now realized that someone created several new copies of his father's prototype suit, he still had no idea who might be the person (or persons) responsible. As Peter continued to mull over the facts, he began to realize that all of the memos certainly had an air of professionalism about them. _Whoever created these suits certainly had a lot of money on them, _Peter thought. _Might be a good idea to bring them to the Bugle, see if they have anything about them in their—_

_ Huh?_

Peter's train of thought came to a screeching halt for the second time that day as he looked up, and realized that he had arrived at his house. But the most peculiar thing Peter noticed was the pitch black Lincoln Town Car parked in his driveway.

Peter only barely had time to realize that his spider-sense wasn't going off when the rear door opened up, and S.H.I.E.L.D. agent Sharon Carter stepped out, wearing a black suit and her ubiquitous sunglasses.

"Afternoon, Peter," Carter said. "Can I have a word with you?"

After their briefing with Danvers that morning, Carter had headed back to her office while Conners had departed for the monitoring room, to receive the latest report regarding Mary-Jane Watson's recovery. As expected, Watson had proved uncooperative, shutting down and refusing to talk. Therefore, Carter gathered up all relevant case files, and proceeded directly to the car that was waiting for her in the Triskelion's parking garage.

While there was always the off-chance that Peter might be working at the _Daily Bugle_, a quick search of the newspaper's work schedule by S.H.I.E.L.D. revealed that he had the day off, an intrusion into his privacy to be sure, but a necessity, given how much unwanted attention Peter had attracted in the past.

Given the classified nature of what Carter intended to tell Peter, she had arranged for the house to be completely empty. Gwen Stacy was with a "specialist," from S.H.I.E.L.D., giving her a medical check-up, her chauffeur was ordered to wait by the car, and Carter knew for a fact that his aunt would not arrive home until 5:00 PM, which gave her more than enough time to persuade Peter to help.

After Peter had unlocked the door, he then deposited his backpack onto the floor, making sure he was not too close to Carter. "So…why are you here exactly?"

"Well, Peter, the fact of the matter is, I'm here to talk to you about your girlfriend, Mary-Jane Watson." With that, she nonchalantly tossed the manila folder she had tucked under her arm onto the kitchen's island. As she had anticipated, Peter's eyes surged with passion at the mere mention of his girlfriend's name.

"MJ! What's happened to her? Is everything…"

"Don't worry Peter," she replied, eager to calm him down, "so far, she's okay, though I'm not sure how much longer."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Peter asked nervously, eyes widening with an unspoken fear. "Has she hurt anyone?"

No," Carter replied bluntly, sliding her sunglasses off of her face and into her suit jacket's pocket, "she hasn't harmed anyone, but we are concerned that she may hurt _herself_."

For the first time, Peter glanced down at the manila folder. "You mean…like suicide?"

Carter nodded grimly. "Granted, we aren't entirely certain about that, but all of the factors appear to be in place. It's all summarized in _here_," she said, tapping on the manila folder. "Everything in there has been either declassified or is public knowledge. As of right now, the suit has shown a remarkable progress in fully bonding with her. This means we have to complete a psychological evaluation to determine the full extent of the bonding process. Unfortunately—"

"What does a psychological evaluation have to do with bonding with a _suit_?"

Carter sighed exasperatedly. This was not her forte. "Look, it's all summarized in this folder, okay? And when we get right down to it, we need her to participate in this evaluation because if we don't—"

"You know, the way you make it sound, it seems to me that you're treating her more like, I don't know, like an _experiment_ and less like a person."

Carter, despite the fact that she thought this would be easy, pressed on. "Fair enough. I'm sorry if I'm sounding too cold and impersonal, but I need your help. Your girlfriend's in dire need right now and _we_ won't be able to help her unless _she_ helps us. If she doesn't, than I'm afraid that there will be nothing more we can do for her. There's also the risk of suicide, which I _know_ you probably wouldn't want. That's why I'm here. I need you to help us help _her_, got it?"

Peter sighed with resignation, staring down at the kitchen island, not wanting to make eye contact with Carter. "You know, I _do_ want to see MJ. I really do. It's just that, I'm nervous, that she's, I don't know, _changed_ or something. What if I can't get her to cooperate? Then what? I'll feel _responsible_, even if I had nothing to do with it. I told her, I _told her_ that I was worried that she would turn into some kind of _monster_. And, and now that she has transformed into this, this _thing_, what can I say?"

Carter, thanks to this sudden flash of insight, realized now why Peter was being so rebellious. If she wanted him to come with her, she would have to pick her words carefully. "Look Peter, no matter what may have happened in the past; there is still _time_ to make a difference. We _can_ help her recover, but not without your help. If you do this, convince her to come out of her shell, you will have done far more good for her than moping around here will ever do."

Peter gripped the manila folder tightly with both hands. After taking a deep breath, he then looked up and stared directly into Carter's eyes.

"Okay. I'll do it."

_Writer's Note_: _I'm back! After several long, hard months of studying, what's better than to just kick back, and write a new chapter for "The Others!" This chapter and the next will round off the epilogue for the first story arc, with the next one providing more excitement and with the action re-orienting itself so it focuses more on MJ! Kudos to both DarkSamuraiX1999 and 1WiththeButterfly for the superb comments and reviews! Always nice to have feedback! As always, Read and Review, and stay-tuned for the final epilogue chapter for Story Arc 1! (This will hopefully be uploaded faster than this chapter!) _


	17. Confrontation

**New York City, New York-** While Peter was being driven across town to speak to his currently incarcerated girlfriend, Carl Redfern was seated on one of the two queen-sized beds within his modest _Holiday Inn_ motel room, attempting to plan out his next move. This had proven to be significantly more complicated than he had expected.

Redfern had journeyed to the Baxter Building four days ago, in the hopes of locating a safe haven. He recalled hearing from a colleague at the Octagon that the Fantastic Four worked there, and hoped he could seek out their help and their protection. This had backfired, however, given how there was no evidence that anyone was in the building upon his arrival, since no one had come to the door. Admittedly, this plan had been a last-ditch effort, as Redfern had never been in contact with the Fantastic Four, or for that matter, the Baxter Building, and was unsure about the plan actually succeeding.

Needless to say, his failure to find asylum only caused Redfern to become even more paranoid and nervous. After all, Redfern had first become deeply rattled after hearing reports of Benjamin Urich being gunned down, and therefore, was beginning to lose his common sense. In the end, he was beginning to deeply regret his earlier decision to become a government whistleblower. It now just seemed so reckless. Originally attempting to make amends, he was now beginning to fear for his life, convinced he had made a poor decision, and unsure if he could trust anyone or go anywhere, almost certain that he was being pursued. This was the reason why Redfern had decided not to head directly to the Triskelion in the aftermath of his botched handoff of notes to Urich, the paranoia was beginning to slowly erode his rational sensibilities, constricting him from taking the necessary steps which would ease his burden: that of a minute flash drive holding several very dangerous (from a public relations perspective) video files.

As Redfern reflected on his currently miserable circumstances, he began to consider the folly of his previous work, the foolishness in designing these multi-million-dollar weapons, which for all intents and purposes, were now aimed towards _him._ If Redfern was in a more superior position to evaluate his present circumstances, he would have no doubt discovered the supreme irony underneath it all, a modern-day Frankenstein, on the run from the very monsters he had created! Unfortunately, all Redfern could summon now was despair. Despair of his former lifestyle, now lost, as well as the ominous foreboding of when the next attempt on his life would be.

Still, as Redfern stared ever more intensely at the flash drive located on his nightstand, he knew that the net may be closing in, and that if he planned to do something, he had better do it soon.

_Having just one flash drive probably isn't a good idea_, he thought. _Probably should make copies. Yet at the same time, that still may not be enough. What to do, what to do, what to do?_ Suddenly, it hit him. _I'll upload these to the Internet! That'll make it impossible for them to stop me! _With the idea firmly planted in his mind, he collapsed backward onto the bed he was sitting on, elated with the realization that he may have discovered a way out of this mess.

That night, Redfern slept quite soundly for the first time in quite a while. Regrettably, his good night's rest would be his last moment of peace.

**The Triskelion, New York City, New York- **As the sun began to set on New York City's Harbor, the fading sun glinting off of the Triskelion's windows, a small black Lincoln Town Car with government plates pulled up to the main entrance. Upon stopping, Peter Parker and Sharon Carter exited the vehicle, momentarily lost in each of their respective trains of thought.

For Carter, she was beginning to find this entire experience rather surreal, recruiting a teenager from high school to essentially play consultant for a U.S. government organization. While she in fact presented this idea to Danvers as though it was reached through a team consensus which everyone decided upon simultaneously, the reality was slightly more complex. The fact of the matter was, almost everyone had been against bringing him in, given how he was in fact a civilian, not a government official with the proper security clearances. Initializing the declassification of certain material so he could view it without legal repercussions was an incredibly time-consuming task, and in the end, there was little hope on the part of the staff, Conners and Carter included, that this would yield a breakthrough. The sole reason for bringing Peter in was because the rest of the group was out of ideas. Everyone found this to be a rather desperate, last-ditch effort, and therefore, expected nothing miraculous to occur.

While Carter was considering the wisdom of bringing in a high school student, despite all of his previous adventures, Peter himself was finding that he had quite a bit of anxiety regarding the inevitable meeting between him and his girlfriend, Mary-Jane Watson. Even though he may have volunteered to come, he was very doubtful that he would be able to help her at all. She had killed her own mother, and Peter had no idea whether she was even in control of the creature which, according to Carter and S.H.I.E.L.D., was currently living inside of her.

Admittedly, Peter still was finding it hard to accept that MJ was responsible for killing her mother, much less all of the other accusations S.H.I.E.L.D. had made against her, including killing forty S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel, Bolivar Trask, and an attempt on Ben Urich's life. What more, the idea that even after he had encountered Gwen Stacy and Eddie Brock, after Eddie had absorbed the "Carnage" clone, and even after S.H.I.E.L.D. stated that they had in fact taken the last remnants of his father's cancer cure, there was _still_ somebody out there who had let an advanced copy of his father's suit latch onto his girlfriend, was beginning to become too much to take. His earlier ennui and weary indignation about this discovery was beginning to slowly transform into white-hot anger. Needless to say, Peter was full of emotional extremes at the moment, both extraordinarily angry, yet nervous at the same time. Having experienced the alarming sensation of his father's suit on his body and on his mind not once but twice caused Peter to feel even tenser. After all, who knew what an advanced copy of the suit would do, especially compared to the prototype, which Peter found dangerous enough?

Peter's thoughts soon come to a close however, as did Carter's, who proceeded to beckon the teenager to join her inside. After they had checked in, the pair then made their way down to the security level, where Peter soon found himself getting briefed on the security precautions that they had for MJ.

"Now," Carter said, removing a small necklace from her pocket, "you're going to need this around your neck when you're visiting her."

As Carter handed the necklace to Peter, he could not help but notice how the necklace appeared to have a close resemblance to dog tags. Only instead of the usual identification card, there was a small square piece of plastic, with a transparent cover showcasing a miniature computer chip. "What is this?"

"That is what we like to call your 'lifeline,'" Carter replied with a quick half-smile. "Essentially, her whole cell is wired to give her a quick jolt of electricity if even one iota of that parasite emerges from her skin. The voltage isn't enough to kill her, but it does disrupt any potential transformation. What that chip does is ensure that you do not end up getting electrocuted either. If we do end up having to deliver a quick electrical shock through that room, that chip creates a temporary 'safe zone,' in which you don't get hit by the voltage."

Peter was aghast. "You electrocute her? Are you-"

Carter cut him off. "Look kid, I know you don't like it, but we don't really have a choice. Do you know how many wackos we have down here? It may not be pleasant, but we do have to keep her under control, just like with any of these other mutants or illegal genetic mutations. Besides, she may not even be in control of herself at the moment, so it's not just for our benefit, but it's for her benefit as well."

Peter, even though he wanted to raise another objection, remained silent, due to the inherent logic in what Carter had just told him.

As the elevator slowed and the doors slowly rolled open, Peter found himself staring down a utilitarian corridor, illuminated with fluorescent lights, giving a bright glow to a hallway which appeared undeserving of such warmth. As they stepped out of the elevator, he noticed that on either side of the hallway were a series of large metallic gates, which appeared to be designed to partition the hallway. Even though Peter had only been down here once before, he found these structures to be quite new, given how they still possessed a glamorous sheen, while most of the other fixtures appeared to be slightly worn and grimy. Peter considered asking Carter about the gates, but decided against it, since he doubted he would receive an answer. Besides, they were both arriving at what appeared to be a small security station in the center of a hub, which meant that they must be getting closer to MJ. After Carter finished speaking to one of the guards, two more exited from one of the station's doors, each brandishing heavy assault rifles.

"Okay, Peter, these two will take you to MJ."

"Wait, where are you going to be?"

"I'm headed back," Carter said, retreating a few steps. "I'm going to be watching it all on the camera inside the cell, so don't worry." After a pause, she then added: "Besides, she's your girlfriend. What do you have to worry about?"

And with that, she proceeded to walk back towards the elevator.

As the two S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers walked along either side of Peter, eyes darting back and forth with a practiced wariness, Peter, despite noticing a few names on several of the cell doors, was preoccupied with what Carter had just told him. _'What do __I__ have to worry about? Oh, not much, except for the fact that I'm going to see my semi-__crazy__ girlfriend, which would be fine, except now she's powered-up too, which means she's __twice__ as crazy as before, _ he thought, as he and the two soldiers accompanying him stopped in front of an imposing door marked, "Watson." While one of the soldiers swiped an I.D. card through a card reader and after a numerical code was put into a small data console mounted on the wall, the other soldier turned to look at Peter, who was just a few inches shorter than him.

"You ready, kid?"

"I…I think so."

"Did she go through the rules with you? What to do while you're in there, how far away you have to stand from her, stuff like that?"

"Uh, not really."

The guard sighed. "Alright kid, here's how it's going to go down. You're going to go in there for a half-hour. Agent Carter, for whatever reason, said we could shut down her force-field. Guess she thinks you can handle yourself in there. Anyways, you need to try to maintain a five-foot distance from her, okay? No touching at all. Remember, that tag, she did tell you about the tag, right?"

"Um, yeah."

"Well, make sure that tag is around your neck and _tucked under your shirt_. Especially since we have to deactivate the force-field, for whatever reason. She gets close to you, she can get into your safe-zone, and we don't want that, okay?"

"Right."

"Finally, when your thirty minutes are up, we'll knock on the door, to let you know. We'll be right outside if you need us. Just have to knock."

"Okay."

"You ready?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess."

The guard then looked over at the one who had unlocked the door, and nodded. The door then opened, and Peter stepped inside.

While Peter was stepping into Mary-Jane's cell, Carter had finally made her way up to an observation booth, where she, Conners, and the team psychologist could observe the encounter between Watson and Parker. As she took a seat next to Conners, she picked up a phone in the booth and made a quick call to the War Room in order to request the force-field in Watson's cell be deactivated. After a few minutes of arguing, the technicians acquiesced, and Carter hung up the phone.

"You're taking a pretty big risk," Conners said, eyes remaining fixated on the video feed from Watson's cell.

"Tell me about it," Carter replied, brushing aside a stray strand of her red hair. "I myself may have doubts about this, but it's not like we can pull out at the moment."

"Yeah, that's something we can both agree on," Conners responded, loosening his tie. "Although I have to admit that I don't exactly see the logic in removing that force-field. I mean, do we even know how much control she can leverage over that parasite?" Conners then swiveled his head to face Carter. "Sure, he's got powers too, but based on the report you filed after you took her into custody, it sounds like that thing's almost as fast as he is. Maybe faster."

Carter sighed as she folded her arms across her chest, making herself comfortable. "Yeah, well, that's what the lifeline is for. As long as he sticks to the safety protocols, he should be okay. Besides, it was suggested to me by Nicky that shutting down the force-field would allow for a slightly more intimate atmosphere, which would hopefully cause her to let down her guard a little more."

Conners swiveled in his chair to face the team's psychologist, Nicola "Nicky" Williams. "You signed off on this?"

Williams, who was busy taking notes on a legal pad while wearing headphones, noticed the one-armed scientist speaking to her. Taking off her headphones she then asked, "What?"

"I was asking if you signed off on allowing the force-field to be deactivated."

"Oh yeah, sure," Williams nodded. "I thought it might be a good idea to, you know; remove any sort of barrier between the two of them so she might be more willing to divulge her current mental state."

"Ah," was Conners' sole reply. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, Conners turned to face Carter again. "That reminds me, did you tell him what the security precautions were?"

Based upon Carter's facial expression, Conners had assumed she hadn't. "Oh well. Let's hope she doesn't accidentally eat him."

Carter sighed again. "Look Curt, I wouldn't worry so much. I'm sure the guards went through what he can and cannot do while he's in there. Besides, we can activate that electrical grid if we need to, and we can watch everything that happens on these monitors. Nothing will go wrong, okay? It will be _fine_."

Conners said nothing, but instead, just leaned forward, focusing all of his attention on the various readouts of the monitoring equipment within the cell. Meanwhile, Carter herself was experiencing some minor doubts of her own. Silently, she mentally revised what she had just told Conners. _Hopefully__, everything will be fine. _

The first thing Peter had noticed after stepping into MJ's cell was MJ herself. As he remained in the basking glow of the blue force-field, he found that MJ definitely appeared to be surprisingly inert and uninterested in whoever had entered her cell. She was currently lying on the cell's bed, dressed in what appeared to be a standard-issue white jumpsuit, facing the wall, curled up in a slightly fetal position. What got her attention was when the force-field was shut off. After the humming of the generator ceased, she turned her head ever so slowly, trying to determine why exactly the force-field had been shut off. That's when she heard a voice. A voice which she had nearly forgotten, but after hearing it, caused her to immediately perk up.

"Hey, Mary."

She turned her head a little more, surprised by this appearance. Upon seeing him, she said, "Peter?"

"It's great to see you again," Peter replied, walking hesitantly forward, trying to measure out the precise amount of space he was supposed to keep between him and his girlfriend. "How's the food here?"

Despite the fact that her life had long since been upended, MJ couldn't help but muster a small smile. Sitting up, she said, "Not bad, as long as you can suppress your gag reflex."

Peter, now relieved that he had managed to establish a good rapport, began to relax a little. "You don't know how much I've missed you."

"Oh, I think I do."

"Oh yeah? How much would you like to bet on it," he asked, with an ever-growing smile appearing on his face.

MJ returned the smile, only it still remained slightly diminished. "I can't believe you're _here_. How did you even get in?"

"Well, when you help S.H.I.E.L.D. out as much as I have, you definitely get to call in a few favors every now and then."

For whatever the reason, MJ did not take too kindly to Peter's response. Her smile disappearing completely, MJ stared directly into Peter's eyes and asked again. "I'm serious Peter. Why are you here?"

Peter, now noticing that his formerly good rapport was rapidly disappearing, quickly changed gears, not wanting to tell her the full truth, but at the same time, wanting to be honest enough so he wouldn't have to worry about her shutting him out. Stepping a little closer, he responded by saying, "Why do you think I'm here MJ? I care about you. I'm worried about you. I want you back at school. I miss seeing you every day."

MJ, still staring into Peter's eyes, slowly got up off of her bed and approached Peter, her own eyes narrowing. "Are you sure? Because to me, it looks like you're still hiding something."

Peter's eyes slowly widened, worried that MJ might discover that he was only telling half of the truth. "No! I'm-I'm not hiding anything!" He paused briefly, attempting to regain his composure. "What's gotten into you MJ?"

MJ stared at Peter a good long time before answering his question, her face slowly darkening. Finally, she shouted, "What do you _think_ is in me, Peter? My-my life is gone, _**GONE**_, because I had the bad luck of-of having this, this _thing_, this _parasite_, enter into my body, and, and—" she shuddered, "—turn me into this, this _monster_, this _murderer_. And, and on top of all of that, this, this _thing_ that is still inside of me—" she shuddered again, causing MJ to wrap her arms around herself. Then, after taking a deep breath, she looked at Peter and whispered, "—_is talking to me, Peter. I can hear it…__in my head._" She then lightly tapped her head for emphasis.

Peter was now rather surprised at MJ's sudden outburst. This was exactly what he was worried about. The pleasant conversation was beginning to turn into a confrontation. Still, Peter felt determined to help MJ as much as he could before the thirty minutes were up. After all, he had gone through almost the exact same experiences she was going through right now, and perhaps he could use that to his advantage, to sooth her. "MJ, believe me, I know _exactly_ what you're going through. When my own father's suit came into contact with me, I could feel it in my brain too. Remember? I _told_ you. I-I almost killed somebody myself…"

"But you're missing the _point_, Peter. You _almost_ killed somebody. I…I actually…" she stopped, unable to continue.

Peter, watching MJ with genuine pity and sadness, attempted to calm her by offering kind words. "It wasn't your fault MJ."

That got her attention, although not in the way Peter intended. "Not my fault," she said, her voice slowly rising. "Not my fault? Of course it's _MY fault!_ Don't you see, Peter? I-I have dreams, _nightmares_…nightmares where I-I see my mother, but-but," she sniffed, "_SHE'S DEAD!_ And-and, I look at my hands…and, and _they have blood on them!_" MJ stopped, breaking her eye contact with Peter. Her eyes were welling up with tears, and in addition, were also filled with horror, as though fearful of what she had become. Slowly, she trudged back to her bed and slowly sat down upon it. Staring at the floor, MJ completed her thoughts. "It's not just that nightmare either, Peter. I-I sometimes have the dream where I'm falling off of the bridge again. But you're not there, and I…I just keep _falling_ and then I hit the water, and-and I feel like I…I _die._" After another brief pause, MJ continued, her eyes still glued to the floor, her hair acting like a veil, preventing Peter from getting a good look at her face. "It-it happens when I'm awake too, Peter. I might just be sitting here, and all of a sudden, without falling asleep again, I-I'm on the bridge, and I get thrown off, or-or I'm fighting the Fantastic Four or, or _you_, or I suddenly have a flashback to my mother, and-and she's dead because _I killed her_."

MJ had to pause again, to take another long, shuddering breath. As Peter watched her speak, he began to notice that her hands were trembling. She couldn't keep them still. As he stood there, listening to her, he began to get the urge to say something, to say _anything_ that might calm her nerves, which to Peter, looked as though they were reaching a breaking point. Unfortunately, he could not think of anything that would help her, no words of wisdom to keep her going. The only thought he had was to allow her to finish what she had to say. So after MJ had drawn another deep breath, she pressed on, hands still shaking.

"But that isn't the worst part, Peter. The worst part is the feeling that I'll never get out of here. I'll just be stuck in this, this _room_ forever, with the only person, the only _thing_ to keep me company being the, the _parasite_ that put me here in the first place. That and my nightmares. It, just doesn't shut up, you know, it always seems to, to talk to me in my head, saying these, these _horrible_ things. I-I can _feel_ it in my brain, Peter, as though it's, I don't know, _changing it_. It's-it's just too terrible to think about," she finished with a final shudder, her teary, frightened eyes coming back up to look at Peter.

As Peter had listened to all of Mary-Jane's ordeals, he could not help but feel the former anger he had possessed transform into nausea. His girlfriend, no older than he was, looked and sounded defeated. This nausea and sympathy Peter felt towards her was compounded by the fact that at least some of the nightmarish flashbacks she was experiencing were because of him. It was his fault MJ had been tossed off of the Queensboro Bridge. It was his fault MJ had become genetically altered. And even if he wasn't wholly responsible for the symbiote bonding to MJ, Peter still blamed himself. Unfortunately, none of this was what MJ needed at the moment. Instead of blame, MJ needed comfort, and for Peter, he only knew one way to calm MJ down at the moment. Despite the earlier warnings against body contact, Peter sat on the bed next to MJ, and hugged her.

As Peter sat down next to MJ, the three adults supervising this encounter stared forward in astonishment.

Carter, rather concerned with this new development, asked, "What is he _doing_?"

"Looks like he's hugging her," Williams ventured absent-mindedly, still making a few more notations on her legal pad.

"Jesus Christ! I told him not to do that!"

Conners turned to Carter as she picked up the phone. "Actually, you didn't tell him about the security procedures at all."

Carter stared at Conners long and hard. "Don't start with me, Conners. Not now." Carter then paused as she was connected. "Uh, yes, hi. Could you patch me through to the two guards standing outside of Watson's cell?" She then paused again. "Uh, Cell number E-309. Sub-basement 8. Uh-huh." Another pause. "You can't? Well, why not?" Another pause. "You're doing _maintenance_ on the broadband network?" Now she was visibly frustrated. "Great. Yeah, thanks for that." She hung up the phone and headed for the door.

As Williams watched Carter leave, she asked her, "Why are heading down now? They still have five minutes together."

"They would have had five more minutes together if they didn't decide to make body contact," Carter shot back. "And now I have to run down there anyway, or at least find a short-wave radio." Following that, she disappeared from the doorway, walking briskly down the hall to the elevator.

As Carter was making her way down to Mary-Jane's cell, Peter was beginning to find that he had some advice he could dispense after all. As he and MJ continued to embrace, he said, "Do you want to know something Mary?"

MJ, whose face was buried into Peter's shoulder, didn't reply.

"Everything you told me, all of it, I'm sorry that it happened to you. It never should have happened to you. I'm sorry."

MJ responded with a sniff, her face still hidden by his shoulder.

"What happened in the past…" he stopped, trying to find the proper words. After a few moments, he continued, "…was awful, and is _still_ awful. I mean, I still regret not being able to save Uncle Ben, or Harry. But in the end, you have to realize that the best thing to do is to try and move on. These people here, S.H.I.E.L.D., they can help you. You don't have to stay in this jail cell forever, right?"

MJ, for the first time since Peter had begun talking, looked up at him, eyes red from crying. Still, she didn't reply right away.

Peter continued on anyway, unsure of how much time he had left. "Look MJ, _I_ love you, and all of our friends love you. We _all_ miss you, and we _all_ want to see you again."

"But-but my mom…"

"I know," Peter replied. "It sucks now, and it will _always_ suck. But you have to remember that there are still people that love you and miss you, which is why it's important to try and cooperate, so you can get out of here, okay?"

MJ sniffed once more and rubbed her eyes. Then, she looked at Peter again and said, "Yeah, okay."

"You promise?"

"I-yeah, I promise."

"That's more like it," Peter said, giving her one last squeeze. You can do this. I know you-"

"You! Watson! Step away from him, **NOW**!"

Peter and MJ turned to the sound of that voice. It was one of the guards. Both of them were leveling their weapons at MJ, with a cross-looking Carter standing in the hallway, her arms folded.

"Did you hear me, Watson? Step away from him," the guard shouted.

MJ, surprised by the sudden appearance of them, jumped up from the bed and stepped several feet away.

As the guard who had shouted at MJ kept his weapon leveled at her, the other one walked perpendicular to MJ in order to reach Peter. As he reached Peter, he asked, "You okay kid?"

"Uh, yeah," Peter responded irritably.

"Good. Let's get out of here."

As the guards pushed Peter out of the cell's door, MJ was beginning to experience some uncomfortable sensations in both her body and her mind. After the guards had come in and surprised the both of them, she heard the symbiote speaking to her in her head. It had been begging her to use the deactivation of the force-field as an advantage to try to escape. Fortunately, MJ had managed to reason with it that it would be futile, that if it did try to overtake her in an attempt to flee, the electrical grid would be activated, canceling the transformation. She had been told this on her second day of confinement. As she was corralled back into her cell by the two guards, she desperately wanted to say one more thing to Peter, but couldn't. The force-field was reactivated, and the cell door slammed shut.

Meanwhile, a visibly irate Carter had reprimanded Peter for the physical contact, even after he had been instructed to not come into close contact with her.

Peter responded angrily. "What did you want me to do? She needed me! Couldn't you see how upset she was?"

Carter sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose. "No kid. I couldn't see how upset she was because the camera doesn't have that kind of capability."

"You didn't hear how traumatized she was?"

Carter sighed again, before looking at Peter. "No. I couldn't hear how she felt because the team's psychologist was using headphones at the moment. Besides, that doesn't matter. What _does_ matter is you violating security procedure. We have protocol for a reason, you know."

"So you wanted me to just stand there and watch her _cry?_"

Carter shook her head in frustration. She was not having this argument with him. "Forget it. You need to be home soon anyway. Come on, let's go."

Peter, who was rather pleased to be leaving Carter's company, willingly went along with her. Once they reached ground level, Carter showed Peter to the same Town Car that had dropped him off at the Triskelion, and left. Carter did not ride with him.

That night, as MJ began to fall asleep, she began to replay Peter's words of advice he had given her. They provided comfort to her, driving away the terrors which had plagued her before. They also filled her with a motivation to cooperate with S.H.I.E.L.D., with the hope that it would lead to her eventual release from their custody.

Little did she know that the symbiote had other plans.


	18. Jailbreak

**The Triskelion, New York City, New York- **Mary-Jane Watson slept somewhat peacefully within her cell's bed, the force-field generator humming along gently. The symbiote, however, was restless.

Ever since she had been apprehended four days ago, the suit itself had been desperately trying to put together a plan, some sort of directive that would allow for it to proceed. After all, that was the reason for its creation. It was designed to take commands and implement them. But after four days of inactivity, it was beginning to get disoriented and agitated.

Another problem the suit was experiencing was the bonding itself. Unlike the other suits, this one could bond remarkably fast to a host, which was viewed as a plus by the creators of the suit, although there was a minor issue which the designers had not been aware of. When Mary-Jane Watson had received the order to assassinate Redfern and Urich, she had complied, due to the mental conditioning she had gone through in the bonding process. That conditioning, for whatever reason, had been broken immediately after she had seen Peter Parker, demonstrating how a fast bonding-process could lead to a glitch or two. The same thing had occurred after the suit had accidentally slit the throat of MJ's mother. The host had forced itself back into control, which, for the parasite, was a peculiar anomaly. After all, the previous hosts had never rebelled against the suit. Rather, they had acted in unison with the creature, given how they themselves had volunteered for the process. MJ had not, and that was where the conflict had arisen. There was a lack of compatibility between parasite and host. The symbiote, however, remained unaware, which was the reason why the creature was probing MJ's mind, searching for the source of conflict.

Now, however, it was getting impatient. After remaining bottled up within the host's body for four days, it had heard enough. Talk about "…genetic recovery," and "…eventual rehabilitation," made the suit nervous, as it feared that there was talk of an attempted separation between itself and its food source, a proposition it had not taken kindly to. Fortunately, the host had remained remarkably resilient, refusing to cooperate, at least until this visit by this "Peter" person. Now, the creature was well aware of the kinship between the host and "Peter," a kinship the creature felt obligated to counteract. Therefore, knowing that it may soon be lose its food supply, the suit, which had made notations of the security precautions within the cell, began to slow MJ's heartbeat.

Meanwhile, several floors above the cell blocks, Carter was getting ready to leave. It had been a long day, and she needed the rest. As she packed up her belongings and case files into her attaché case, she reflected on the promise she had made to play "guardian angel" to Parker's girlfriend.

_Can't believe I actually made that promise to that kid_, she thought, yawning heavily. Carter had been forced to stay up until three 'o' clock in the morning the previous night, in order to devise a series of options for Danvers to look through the next day. Having Peter come to speak with her was the only option the rest of team had decided upon, given how everyone else had been aching for sleep as much as she had been. And while the end result of this encounter appeared to be largely positive, Carter was still mildly irritated at Peter for violating the "no-touch" protocol. She was also angry about her accidental remark she had made immediately after Parker and Watson had embraced, due to her inherent religiosity and her concern of "taking the Lord's name in vain." Unfortunately, she did not have enough time to dwell upon it, given how official S.H.I.E.L.D. policy forbade employees from divulging their religious beliefs or political-

The phone rang.

Breathing a heavy sigh of frustration and resignation, Carter reluctantly picked up the phone.

"Agent Carter speaking."

The voice on the other end did not introduce itself. "We have a situation in Watson's cell." It was one of the technicians in the War Room.

All of the fatigue and drowsiness Carter had been experiencing vanished instantaneously. "What's wrong?"

The voice on the other end paused for a moment, as though checking on something. After a moment, the voice said, "According to the data feeds, her life and vital signs are reaching critical. It-it looks like she's going into cardiac arrest…"

Carter's eyes widened as she barked out orders to the technician. "Send down an EMT immediately with an armed escort. Have them deactivate the force-field, and radio the station down there to let them know I'm on my way."

"An EMT," the technician said, somewhat baffled by this request. "Are you sure? I mean-"

"Just do it," Carter snapped back.

"Roger," the technician replied. He hung up.

_Great_, she thought to herself as she slammed the phone down onto the receiver. _What else can go wrong?_ Carter then grabbed her suit jacket off of her chair and sprinted toward the elevator.

As Carter made her way from her office to the elevator, her mind began to race, wondering what was happening to Watson. _This isn't making __any__ sense,_ she thought, jamming her I.D. card into the slot reader, giving her access to the sub-levels. After all, Nicky had told her that MJ seemed to be in better spirits based on the audio transcripts. She was beginning to show signs that she would be willing to cooperate with them. An actual breakthrough! _So why does it look like she's dying? _

Carter eventually decided to stop trying to guess the reason for this sudden turn in events. _I'll just have to call up Conners and Williams afterward_, she thought to herself as the elevators doors opened. _Let them do the analyzing._ Carter then ran to the security station.

While Carter was heading to the security station, the Emergency Medical Team was already within Watson's cell, intent on defibrillating her. The man in charge, Parton, was not looking forward to it.

Richard Parton, a barrel-chested man approaching his late forties with graying hair and a thin beard, had been a graduate of the John Hopkins School of Medicine, later taking up residence in the hospital of the same name. Initially interested in emergency medicine and surgery, he had become sidetracked in his second year of residency by the inherent boom of genetic engineering companies that had popped up in the U.S., mostly due to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s willingness to accept corporate bids for a new Super-Soldier Serum. Intrigued by these new discoveries, Parton had shifted his studies to genetics, studying and receiving another degree in the bioengineering field at Empire State University. Unlike most of the other geneticists who joined the burgeoning field, Parton had an interest in analyzing the effects of the various "wonder-drugs," as opposed to creating them. This naturally put him in the minority of scientists, geneticists, and other personnel, who were more interested in developing a reputation and turning a profit, instead of studying for the sake of curiosity. Therefore, it made perfect sense that he had been approached by several government agencies after earning his genetics degree, interested in him becoming a watchdog of sorts.

Parton, who had received offers from the EPA and the FDA, had decided to apply for S.H.I.E.L.D., a group he had been hearing an awful lot about, including the rumors that they had uncovered Captain America. Intrigued by the possibility of studying the original Super-Soldier Serum compared with the newer iterations of the formula developed by Hammer Industries, OsCorp, and the like, Parton was accepted into S.H.I.E.L.D., just in time for the passage of the Superhuman Test Ban Treaty.

With the passage of the treaty, Parton began to grow concerned that he would be unable to continue his studies as watchdog, or even compare Super-Soldier Serums. Therefore, he requested to be transferred over to the Triskelion's medical wing, with the secret hope that he would still be able to do some research regarding the fantastic biological systems of some of the Ultimates. Unfortunately, it turned out that the Triskelion's medical team would not be able to take any of the Ultimates, since there was concern of a security risk. Some of the doctors may not have the security clearances to say, view the medical files of Steve Rogers. There was a concern that a blood sample could be stolen, and sold to another country that wanted a Super-Soldier Program of their own. To Parton, that sounded ridiculous, and rather idiotic.

Nevertheless, he had become the director of the medical wing, and while it may be unfair for S.H.I.E.L.D. to restrict personnel from operating on certain members, he was currently trying to put a kid through college, and had not been willing to risk his superiors' ire. Besides, it had not been all bad. His knowledge of emergency medicine and surgery had been useful, allowing for the creation of Emergency Medical Teams, otherwise known as EMTs, a sort of rapid-response group which could be mobilized to go anywhere, with minimum equipment, thanks to Tony Stark's impressive technology, and operate on any soldiers or other personnel who needed it. These EMTs had proven invaluable for when Max Dillon, Flint Marko, and Norman Osborn had invaded the Triskelion, and again for when Osborn had escaped S.H.I.E.L.D. custody for the second time, with Parton himself leading a few of the teams.

At first, Parton found it odd that S.H.I.E.L.D. had not yet formed an emergency medical team when the organization had first been founded. Eventually though, Parton began to understand why. For all of their technological prowess, they had forgotten the little stuff, the essential details that would streamline the bureaucracy. They had focused too much on offensive capabilities, and had therefore forgotten that support systems were just as important, just as crucial.

Even though Parton may have still played a rather important role in formulating a rudimentary support system, becoming in effect a private hospital administrator as well, he was beginning to find the governmental constraints a little too painful. Sure, he may have had a hand in certain aspects of S.H.I.E.L.D. policy, but he always felt as though he trudging through waist-deep mud. He couldn't get anywhere with the higher-ups, and he was beginning to feel as though they were dumping more and more work on him and his staff, forcing the medical wing to treat the sudden influx of cadavers or wounded from one operation or another, insisting that they couldn't take them to a local hospital, as there might be a security breach. Compounding his frustration was their refusal to divulge all of the details of the operation which had produced so many injured soldiers, as well as their resistance to bringing in other nurses or doctors from local hospitals for fear of a security breach. Again with the security breach! And now they were calling him in the middle of the goddamn night to resuscitate a prisoner, even though he hadn't received any details of the patient in question. No medical files, no explanation for why she was being held there, nothing. And now they expected—

"Doc? Doctor Parton? You there?"

Parton blinked as he realized that he was in Watson's cell, with the two other members of the EMT. One of the two guards they had met at the nearby security station was looking at him questioningly.

"Sorry, I must have zoned out," Parton said, rubbing his eyes. "What were you saying?"

"I wanted to know if you were ready, since I was preparing to shut down the force-field."

Parton stared forward at the young redheaded girl, lying on the small bed, turned away from them. She was so small, so frail. Suddenly, Parton snapped into focus, remembering why he was here. He turned to the guard and nodded. "Ready."

The guard deactivated the force-field, and the team stepped forward decisively. The guards remained behind the team, in order to not get in the way. Parton and one of the youthful assistants, a man by the name of Willis, pulled aside the sheets in order to move the body in preparation for the defibrillation while the other assistant, a young woman by the name of Jackie, got the defibrillator started up. As Parton adjusted the girl's body, he noticed that there was something unreal about her body. Something disturbing.

"Jesus," he gasped in surprise.

What had surprised Parton and Willis and caused them to take a step back was the fact that her entire body, face included, appeared to be covered in some sort of alien substance. All over her body was this skin-tight, organic material, primarily purple, with interwoven strands of black. As for the face, that was why the two of them took a step away. Instead of the usual face, they both stared into this horrific visage, with blank white eyes outlined in black, as well as a mouth which appeared to be grinning with black, needlelike teeth. Parton, upon seeing this, this _creature_, instinctively shuddered before reluctantly forcing himself forward again. He knew that this was where they kept some of the more dangerous mutations, and no matter what, he had a responsibility to resuscitate—

Without warning, the right arm of the creature swung up rapidly, revealing a sharp claw which lunged for his lifeline. Before Parton could react, the creature's arm, with a stunning swiftness which to him was a blur, ripped the metal necklace off of his neck.

What happened next was rather indistinct. After the lifeline was ripped off of his neck, he then felt a jolt of pain in his chest, with the dim realization that he had been kicked by this creature. The world then turned upside down as he hurdled through the air, colliding with either Jackie or Willis, he couldn't be sure. Finally, he watched as the ground rose up to meet him, smacking him in the head brutally. Then everything went dark.

Carter, in the meantime, was hurrying towards Watson's cell, trying to reassure herself that MJ was not attempting to end her life. _It wouldn't make any sense anyway,_ she thought, attempting to find a rationalization. _Williams said she would be more cooperative, that Parker actually got her to open up._ She took a deep breath, calming herself, as she continued to hurry down the hallway. _An EMT is in there anyway. She'll be fine. Just fine,_ she thought, as she reached the door to Watson's cell. _Hopefully_.

Carter pounded on the door, signaling that she wanted to be let in. She waited for what felt like several agonizing minutes before knocking again. Still no response. _Huh_, she thought. _This is odd_. Then the alarm went off.

Carter was now beginning to panic a little. If the alarms, and the klaxons, and the sirens were going off, that could only mean one thing.

A prisoner had escaped.

Fearing the worst, Carter swiped her I.D. card into the card reader, and quickly entered the numerical code into the keypad. Carter then turned the massive wheels on the cell door, and it opened.

Carter stepped inside.

The first thing she noticed was the bodies. Everyone was down. The EMT, the soldiers, everybody. A burnt odor wafted through the air. In a few spots, there appeared to be some pools of blood near some of the bodies. Closest to the door was one of the soldiers, with his hand near the alarm button, lying in a pool of blood. The smell suggested to Carter that someone had activated the electrical grid in this room. What confirmed her fears was a glance at Watson's bed. It was empty, and there was large tear in the ventilation panel.

She was in the ventilation system.

Carter swore as she spun around, heading for the exit, just in time to watch the door slam shut.

_Oh, God._

Immediately, Carter began to think through the security procedure that was no doubt being carried out at this very moment within the War Room. They had probably seen the alarm system being activated on the computer system. After they had checked and confirmed that it wasn't a glitch, they would then look through all of the cells via the security cameras, to check and see if anyone was missing. Given how all of the cell doors had been overridden, Carter knew she wouldn't be able to use the code or her I.D. card to exit the cell and call the War Room. She decided the best way to be spotted was to stand under one of the security cameras. As she made her way over to one of the two cameras, she noticed the lens was broken, and that there was a small amount of purple-black residue around the lens. Glancing over at the second camera, she saw the lens was similarly broken, with some purple-black residue around the lens.

_Great,_ she thought. _Wish I didn't ask what else could go wrong. _Despite the broken cameras, she began to think about what might happen next. If they couldn't get a reading from one of the cells, the next step would be—

_-pumping in the sleeping agent_, she thought unhappily, frowning.

The sleeping agent had been in use for as long as Carter could remember working for S.H.I.E.L.D. It was pumped in through the ventilation systems of all of the cells, or at least the cells that were occupied. The prisoners wouldn't wake up for 48 hours. Carter, aware that Watson was in the ventilation system right now, began to grow concerned that she might suffer from an overdose of the sleeping agent, causing it to kill her. _And then there are these other people here too,_ she thought, looking around at the guards and the medical team. Thinking quickly, Carter began to put together a plan to keep the sleeping agent away from her, and the unconscious bodies. After all, who knew what the gas would do to someone who was injured?

Another problem for Carter was the addition of those newly installed security gates. In the past, teams of S.H.I.E.L.D. personnel would run a cell-to-cell inspection of each of the prisoners after the sleeping gas was emitted, in order to check on each of the captives and see if they required any medical attention. The gates would slow down this process, making it difficult to get into each of the cells. The reason for the installation of these massive barriers was to stymie any potential prison riot. They were made of titanium, interwoven with adamantium, and Carter recalled hearing about how they had installed a separate generator, for the sole purpose of running 10,000 volts through each of the gates. Given how these massive electrical fences were on a separate power system, Carter knew how it would be a long time before anyone got to Watson's cell.

She had to stop that sleeping gas from entering.

Thinking furiously, she began to consider stuffing the ventilation panel with sheets from Watson's bed. Unfortunately, the panel was too big, and there weren't enough sheets. Slowly she became aware of a slight _hissing_ sound, one which signified that the agent was already in the system, and getting pumped into the cells.

Hurrying towards the panel which contained the alarm button, and the keypad and card reader for the door, Carter searched frantically for the controls which operated the cell's force-field. She was uncertain about whether or not the reactivation of the force-field would block the spread of the sleeping agent, but at this point, she was panicking, desperate for anything to halt the spread of the gas. Taking one last breath of air, she searched for a control panel controlling the force-field.

As the gas continued to flow through the ventilation system, aided by massive pumps and fans, the parasitic suit scampered quickly through the air ducts, using its intuition to ascertain its current whereabouts. At the moment, the gas was billowing all around it, fully enveloping the suit much like it had enveloped MJ. The gas, despite its sheer volume, was having no ill effect on the suit. Most of the gas that had collided with the symbiote had been filtered through the suit, purifying the air. This was one of the purposes of the suit, and why it had been code-named "Toxin." It was designed to manufacture toxins, but could also reverse-engineer them, storing the chemical compositions of new poisons or venoms into its biological memory. That was what it was currently doing with the sleeping agent.

Still, it realized that it could not continue indefinitely, and had to find a way out before the filtration reached a critical overload.

_**Escape. Must escape. **_

Choosing to abandon its previously silent tactics, the parasite paused in the air duct, choosing to take its chances outside of the air shaft. But before it could even puncture the sheet metal, the symbiote fell through the bottom of the duct, its weight too much for the ductwork to bear. Deftly angling its body, the suit landed on all fours, in a manner similar to a cat, and inspected its surroundings.

_**Where are we? Cubicles, corner offices, computers. Office space. Search for significant hostiles or other security devices. **_

Its blank, white eyes darting back and forth, the creature slowly scanned the office floor it had landed in. To its right were rows upon rows of cubicles, with a row of conference rooms off to the far right. To its left, a series of private offices, all dark, and all empty. Directly ahead was a floor-to-ceiling window, along with a pair of elevator doors.

_**No significant threats detected in the immediate vicinity. No apparent security apparatus here either. There must be two or more security systems on different grids, hence lack of an alarm. Begin second phase of escape. **_

The creature, still slightly tentative, approached the window.

_**Our current height appears to be 500-1050 feet. Helicopters suggest either regular patrols, or heightened security in response to prison break. Begin calculations for necessary trajectory to reach harbor waters. **_ __

The creature, after a few quick calculations, raised its fist and brought it down hard, smashing the window, allowing for a strong breeze to rush into the area.

_**Current wind speeds may force a recalculation in trajectory. **_

As the creature stood at the base of the partially smashed window, kicking the remaining shards of glass out of the window frame, it did a few more calculations. Then it heard the ding of an elevator.

_**Potential hazard to escape plan. Fight or flight? Terminate subject or subjects, or risk jumping? **_

The creature leaped, using its powerful legs to propel itself far away from the building, just as the elevator doors opened. As the creature flew through the air, it began to angle its body to create an aerodynamic form. As it neared the water, streaking towards it like a purple missile, a rare feeling of satisfaction crossed its mind, melding with MJ's unconscious brain.

_**Mission accomplished. **_

_**Prepare for next directive. **_ __


	19. Recalibrations

Mary-Jane Watson awoke slowly, as though coming out of a fog. The first thing she noticed was the darkness. Under normal circumstances, she used to awake from the blue force-field which made up her cell's parameters, or from a horrid nightmare, or because she was about to receive a meal. Yet this time, she awoke without any of those stimuli, instead waking as though she was coming out of a trance. Opening her eyes, the first thing she encountered was sheer darkness, followed by the sensation of waterlogged, damp wood. This naturally caused her to feel quite confused, with a flurry of questions crossing her dazed, sleepy mind. _What the…Where the heck am I? Why do I feel wood under me? My cell didn't have any wood…Why is it so dark? Is there a power outage? _

The thought of the power being out at S.H.I.E.L.D.'s headquarters, which was ground-zero for some of the worst monsters, some of the most insane and mentally-addled criminals, filled MJ with alarm. No matter what creature was inside of her, no matter how much of a monster she thought she had become was very small and insignificant (in her opinion) compared to the rumors of the other, more _experienced _prisoners in her vicinity. Not knowing what to do other than try to prepare in case someone or some_thing_ came through her cell door, MJ chose to find a better hiding spot. Standing up, she heard the wooden floorboards creek, which again caused puzzlement as she tried to figure out why she felt and heard the creak of old wood in the Triskelion, a place known for having nothing but metal and electrical wiring. Soon though, her puzzlement abated, only to be followed with an unpleasant sensation in her gut, as though she had swallowed a bad apple and had eaten the core. After she had stood up, she noticed a window, which was rather odd, since she remembered how there were no windows in her cell. Approaching it and peering out, she found herself staring almost directly at the Triskelion, which had massive floodlights scanning its nearby shores along with helicopters fluttering around.

She had escaped from the Triskelion.

Seeing this sight came as quite a surprise to MJ, with the sudden shock causing her to lean forward and grasp the frame of the window as her heart beat faster and faster. In addition, she began to take several deep breaths, as her mind, rapidly waking up from its initial grogginess, began to try and figure out how she had escaped, and why.

_Wha?...This…this doesn't make any sense…How could I escape? Why? It-it doesn't make sense…I couldn't have escaped, I couldn't have, I wouldn't…I mean, it doesn't make any—_

_ You._

The sudden revelation explaining how she escaped soon struck MJ with a dark, cold dread. She began to feel the sweat from her body, her heartbeat in her ear. This-this _thing_ had taken over, and helped her to break out, against her will, it had taken her hostage, and spirited her away from the one group which could have set her free from this-this thing, this monster, this curse. _Damn you_, she thought. _Damn you, damn you, damn you, you horrible_—

_**Enough.**_

The voice of the other, her monstrous twin, struck her with the same forceful impact as when it had first spoken to her in that anonymous parking garage. It sounded the same when it had spoken to her inside of her cell, when it was just her and it, with it never stopping unless it wanted to, even if MJ had wanted to remain alone with her thoughts. And now it had once again crossed a line, freeing her from prison. _Oh God, how many people did I kill…Oh god, I-I can't do this. Please, just-just leave me alone. Get out of my head…Just…stop it. Stop it stop it stop it stop—_

_**ENOUGH**_, it thundered once again, attempting to keep MJ focused, even if she felt as though she were teetering on the brink of self-control once again. First Urich, then all those others, and then her mother…_Oh God, my Mom…I-I kil—_

_**We must move quickly. They may set up a perimeter and search the nearby dock houses. We must head into the city soon, and find some clothes to hide the prison attire. **_

While the symbiote was trying to keep MJ from turning into a nervous wreck, she was beginning to find her ire growing against the creature, not feeling like obeying its commands. _You want __me__ to listen to __you__? After what you've done to me? My family? My life? Why would I want to do __anything__ to help you? All you've done is turn me into a-a __monster__, almost driven away everyone I care about…turned me into a-a __murderer__...I'd rather I get found by S.H.I.E.L.D. and go back to that room. Anything, anything at all to get you out of me, _MJ told the creature angrily in thought, fighting back tears, and fists clenched, with gritted teeth. But while her convictions were initially strong, she began to feel a rather odd sensation filling her mind, causing her defiance to recede into a fog. _**Listen,**_ the creature replied, its voice no longer holding its imperious tone, but rather, one of a close confidante. Soothing, rather than demanding. _**Help me, help **__**us**__**, and we will be doing far more good together than with S.H.I.E.L.D. They know nothing. We are far more equipped to cooperate than to separate. We are efficient, effective, and we can find the person responsible for creating us, and **__**he**__** can help us.**_

While the argument on the part of the creature was something MJ would ordinarily have been adamantly against, something caused her to change her mind. It was not the symbiote's persuasiveness, nor its tone, but instead, something innately more sinister. During MJ's period of incarceration in the Triskelion, the symbiote had been exploring MJ's mind, and, as MJ had feared, tampered with it in order to ensure she would become more agreeable to the parasite's commands, with the end goal being complete symbiosis, in which MJ would instinctively carry out what the symbiote wanted her to do, without any communication between the two minds. The initial bonding process had progressed quite smoothly, and had resulted in a perfect mind-meld, everything the creature had been created to do: efficiently bond with a host and make it obedient to commands. Unfortunately, this initial process had gone haywire after MJ had recognized Peter in the crowd on that day Urich had been gunned down. Now, the creature had to rebuild that initial bond from scratch, with the process starting in the Triskelion. While the mind-meld was not entirely complete, the symbiote had managed to explore her memories, in order to better understand its host and ideally attempt to manipulate her more efficiently. Therefore, what broke MJ down and caused her to follow the symbiote's command was through the use of her memories of Peter, and the subsequent dopamine which was released upon their first kiss and her undying love for him. This exploitation of her memories, along with the release of pleasure-inducing dopamine, clouded her thought-process and resulted in MJ feeling quite open to the creature's arguments. While this odd emotional release flowed through her, a small trickle of doubt remained in her mind, worlds away from her earlier stream of defiance. _But, I thought Peter suggested that we—_

_** Peter is irrelevant for the moment. All that matters is that we move. **__**Now**__**. **_

MJ stood there, leaning against the corrugated metal of the dock house trying to think through her options, trying to make a decision. She could have sworn Peter told her that they-_she_ should cooperate with S.H.I.E.L.D. They could help her. Yet the creature seemed to have made a very persuasive argument. Maybe she was just tired. It was, after all, two, three o'clock in the morning? Maybe she was just tired. Better to listen to what it was saying and sort through it later.

Therefore, after deciding to sneak out of the dock house, MJ began to look around for spare clothing to wear, in order to hide her prison coveralls. Sadly, there appeared to be no spare clothing in this dock house, with all of the furnishings given over to power tools, workman's gloves, and spare rigging. Therefore, with little choice, MJ grabbed a pair of workmen's gloves and slipped them on in order to discourage leaving any more fingerprints. After a cursory look and sweep in order to ensure no fingerprints of hers remained, MJ walked over to the door and opened it.

Until she found it to be locked from the outside.

While this frustration, no matter how minor, might have caused her to ordinarily react in anger and frustration because of her heightened emotions, the creature had managed to avoid any outbursts by suggesting she look around for any implements which might be able to dislodge the exterior lock. After finding a drill, she then began to bang on the door a few more times in order to locate the swinging padlock, which clunked noisily against the exterior door. MJ then drilled several holes around where the latch was located, before hammering at the central piece with a rubber mallet. Much to her luck, the plan worked, and MJ managed to exit the dock house after placing the tools back where she found them and by swinging the latch back into its spot, appearing as though it had never been tampered with. With that, MJ headed downtown.

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. - **Becky Rodgers sat in the headquarters' small break room, nursing a cup of coffee, trying desperately to listen to her boss. It was getting close to one o'clock in the morning, and Rodgers knew she was way off of her sleep cycle. Ever since her boss had flown down to Langley to brief the Director of the CIA on the potentially disastrous fall-out from S.H.I.E.L.D. capturing one of their assets, Rodgers had been given command of the operation. Since Rodgers was unsure of what the Director's verdict would be, Rodgers had simply begun cleaning up operations around the globe, trying to tie up any loose ends and finishing others. If a mission could not be completed, she simply instructed the Cryptkeeper teams and the asset posted to roll up operations and scatter, just in case there were any investigations in each of the countries if Cryptkeeper was made public. This lightened workload proved to be easier than expected, allowing for Rodgers to end the day around five or six o'clock, instead of the usual overtime of midnight or longer. This almost nine-to-five shift was quite pleasant, since it allowed Rodgers to focus on more than just work, including rekindling her relationship with her boyfriend, Jason. It had been relatively difficult in the past few months, given how there was an intense amount of secrecy and long work hours, which lead to an inevitable growing apart. Now though, things were looking better for her personal life, if not her career. Unfortunately, this lull in the storm had now passed with the return of her boss, Sarah Ryder.

Taking a sip of her coffee, Rodgers noticed how bitter it was, probably since it was the old stuff from yesterday morning. Closing her eyes and forcing the disgusting coffee down her throat, Rodgers turned back up to look at Ryder through bloodshot eyes. When Ryder had first called her up, and after Rodgers made her way through her sleepy fog in order to understand who was calling, Rodgers had thrown on some jeans and a t-shirt and drove to headquarters after taking a cold shower. Much to her surprise, Ryder was not only inside the building already, but was in fact the polar-opposite of Rodgers. Not only was she awake, but she also appeared to be extremely well-dressed, wearing standard business clothes along with rapidly scribbling notes down on a notepad, an odd thing to do since, as a Station Chief, she managed to make a habit of not leaving a paper trail, committing tasks and directives to memory.

"Anyways," Ryder said, finishing her notes. "What Tom was suggesting we do is clamp down on New York City, and, to put it in his words…_recalibrate._

Rodgers once again rubbed her eyes before saying, "Recalibrate? What the hell does that mean?"

Ryder sighed before giving her subordinate a look of frustration. "It means we lock down New York City. Not like I suggested earlier, where we placed an alert system over the city and had Redfern's name on a no-fly list. What Tom wants, what _I_ want is to have boots on the ground. Grab Teams in front of any publication which Redfern might go to, and with taps into the CCTV networks of any other publication which Redfern may not go into unless he's desperate."

Rodgers blinked in surprise at the scale of the operation. "You're talking about using thirty, maybe forty people to bring in one man?"

"Yes," Ryder said, absolutely deadpan. "That is what Tom feels would be best for this situation at the moment, and I happen to agree with him. Not only that, but I want you to call in the others."

This small statement caused a break in Rodgers' wall of grogginess. "Wait. The others? You want me call in all of the other assets to New York?"

Ryder stared at Rodgers intensely. "You heard me. I want all of the assets called to New York City immediately. If any of the grab teams can't locate Redfern, I want him dead. I don't care if we stage it so he looks like he was mugged or if we just end up shooting him in the head like that reporter, whatever his name was," Ryder said dismissively. "The point is, I'm not fucking around with Redfern anymore. The Director wanted me to put a lid on this while he worked some things on his end, so that's what I'm doing."

Rodgers, after listening to Ryder's intense demands, leaned back and brushed the frizzled, unkempt blond hair out of her eyes. It was evident that Ryder was completely willing to go hardline on this, so she may as well try to keep up.

"What do you need from me then?"

Without a single pause or delay, Ryder quickly issued a directive. "First things first, try to compile a list of all of the areas where Redfern may go to distribute any Cryptkeeper data he may have and try to narrow it down to low-risk locations. In other words, see where he could go which might not have security cameras, or be too publicity-heavy. Then scale everything from low-risk to high-risk. We'll use that spectrum as a way to organize and place grab teams and assets. Also, send the call out to everyone to get here as soon as possible."

Rodgers groaned under her breath as she stood up wearily. She was going to have a long day ahead of her, and Jason was not going to be happy.

**Queens, New York- **While Rodgers was struggling to stay awake, Peter was wide awake, and frantically trying to remember where he had placed Urich's files.

The day had gone far better than previous days, with Peter in high spirits after talking to MJ and persuading her to cooperate with S.H.I.E.L.D. Sure, he may have ticked off a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent, but so what? He had done the right thing, and hadn't gotten eaten in the process, so what was there to complain about? He had even helped his Aunt with dinner, which almost _never_ happened. Over their meal, Peter had told his Aunt and Gwen about his trip to S.H.I.E.L.D., which only reinforced his happiness, with Aunt May saying how she was, "Proud of him," as he had shown true loyalty affection in talking to her, while Gwen, as she usually did, gave Peter an affectionate punch on the arm.

After dinner, he had done his homework and watched a little television with May and Gwen, even though it was a show he had never heard of and frankly, didn't care about. After that, Gwen and Peter continued to hang out while Aunt May headed off to bed. Eventually, Gwen decided to call it quits for the night, with Peter agreeing, each of them heading off to their respective rooms. It was when Peter was lying down in bed that he was suddenly struck by a flash of inspiration. _The papers! Maybe I ought to hand them off to S.H.I.E.L.D. They could certainly make better use of them than me. The only use I could get out of them is a paper airplane._ He had then gotten out of his bed and went over to his backpack in order to fish out the files from "Charlie," the mysterious informant who had first given the papers to Urich. While he was first pleased with himself for the idea, his happiness soon gave way to dread and nervousness when he discovered that the documents were not in his backpack.

_What? Where did they go? I could have sworn I put them in my backpack today after that last class…Did I leave them in the classroom_, he wondered, instantly worried of what might happen if someone else managed to get their hands on it. But no, they weren't left in the classroom because he made sure to put everything back in its spot, including the documents talking about an "Operation Cryptkeeper" and an "Octagon." _So where are they? Gwen can't have them, or she would have said __something__. And no way Aunt May saw them either. _

As he kneeled on his attic-floor bedroom, he considered opening his trunk and turning his entire room upside down to find those documents. But he soon realized that it was getting close to one-thirty in the morning, and he should probably be getting to bed, since he could always look for the papers more extensively tomorrow, without having to worry about risking his Aunt's ire. Still, as he crawled back into his bed, he found himself frustrated that he had lost documents which may have been able to help MJ even more in freeing her from the symbiote. As he closed his eyes, one more thought continued to push through his mind.

_Where did I put those documents?_

**Forest Hills Gardens, Queens, New York-** While Peter was getting into bed, frustrated at his poor organizational skills, Jessica Jones, the senior who ran the closed-circuit student newscast at Midtown High School was sitting upright in her bed, wide awake and brimming with excitement. With her headboard lamp turned on, Jessica flipped through her Creative Fiction folder, awed at what was sitting in her lap.

Instead of re-reading her short story which, in her opinion, was pretty bad, she was instead looking at highly official documents, something which, from her observations, definitely appeared to be legitimate, and not some sort of elaborate hoax. What caused her to become even more amazed and fascinated were the mounds and mounds of notes, each of which went into great detail describing each of the "subjects" and their appearance. Still, even this was no match for the ultimate revelation which kept Jessica awake long into the night. Apparently, each of these organic "suits" could utilize webbing, something that was very similar to Spider-Man…

_ Interesting…_she thought. _Very interesting…_

_I'm not dead!...yet. So yes, it had been a while, but whatever. So as you can see here, the plot thickens, with more action and suspense soon to follow! Also, having a bit of trouble here on where Peter ultimately lives in the Ultimate universe (see what I did there?) I seem to always recall them saying "Queens," although I'm not sure they ever went __too__ specific. If anyone does know if Peter and May live in a specific Queens neighborhood in the Ultimate-verse, let me know, for future reference. Anyways, enjoy, and hopefully, a new one will come up soon enough! (Also: RIP Ultimate Peter. Pity. Haven't checked out the new guy, though I'd be interested in hearing anyone's thoughts.)_


	20. The Others

If one were to visit the Life Foundation's website on the Internet, they would come across the slogan, "Saving the World, One Life at a Time." One could then scroll through the website, clicking on the "About Us" page, where the Life Foundation, in vague terms, aimed to, "promote a humanitarian awareness and assist families worldwide in need of medical care, education, and housing." One might also notice how they are a non-profit, located in Virginia, along with a brief newsletter, and photos of various volunteers helping educate children in third-world countries. What one might miss is how there is no phone number for people interested in joining. There is an e-mail, but the likelihood of getting a reply from the Life Foundation is extremely unlikely. If one were to go a step further, and try and drive to the address on the website, one may realize how the building in question is an office building, but not one which has recently been occupied. If an e-mail is sent asking where the headquarters are located, since the website appeared to have the incorrect listing information, then they would get an automatic reply informing the e-mailer how they were initially stationed in Virginia, but had since moved the office to Colorado. There would be no new address listed in the e-mail, and any other e-mails asking about the location change would go unanswered for many weeks, if not months. This is because the Life Foundation was not an actual non-profit, but instead, a fictional front for Operation Cryptkeeper to use effectively in order to oversee and monitor their assets and the operation's targets.

Trevor Cole was one such member of the Life Foundation, with his location being Doomstadt, the capital of Latveria. With his intense blue eyes resembling the heads of nails hammered into his powerful frame, outlined in his business suit, he might have appeared to be a former college football quarterback, having since moved on from his frat house days into the serious world of business. Yet despite his physique and his passing resemblance to the Latverian citizenry, Cole was not just another stuffed shirt of the foundation's offices, but was in fact something far deadlier.

He was one of Operation Cryptkeeper's "assets," or assassins.

Much like his other, equally talented operatives (none of whom had ever met or even knew that others existed), Cole had entered into Cryptkeeper's program due to a sense of shock and anger. He had heard of massive battles in New York City, and began to nurse a deep distrust in S.H.I.E.L.D. and super-powered members of any allegiance. "Before, it seemed like everything was pretty decent, you know? But then all of a sudden these super-humans, these freaks just start popping out of the sky. And S.H.I.E.L.D. suggests you can trust the ones working for them? In my opinion, they're as dangerous as the freaks they claim to be protecting us from." A career soldier, Cole, much like Nick Fury, had served in the Gulf War, and thought it was far more dangerous to introduce the specter of super-powered adversaries into the world, as he believed that it would provoke a new arms-race, something far more disturbing than the weapons stockpiling of the Cold War since, "…it would now be about who can play God better, who can screw around with people more, and twist them into monsters."

Given Cole's concerns over this potential arms race, it made sense that he would be the first volunteer to the Cryptkeeper program, eager to help America keep an edge and to deny other countries from achieving similar aims to S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Ultimates. Plus the fact that he would be sticking it to S.H.I.E.L.D., even if they weren't aware of the program, was another equally powerful incentive. As he was informed in the interview prior to his "training," where he would, "…be conditioned into a powerful and deadly fighting force…" the idea that he would gain the same abilities as those "freaks" he denigrated appeared to be lost on him. He just wanted to help, and was willing to do whatever it took to accomplish that goal. So the conditioning process began, where he was broken down in the Octagon and remolded to become a rather lethal covert assassin, willing to kill immediately after being given permission to do so, willing to follow orders to the letter, and to not ask questions. Some of this had already been drilled into him in basic training, so it was relatively easy to fulfill that benchmark. The other tasks were a bit more difficult to complete, such as the foreign language courses in order to maintain the proper diction and accent as well as lateral thinking exercises, to allow him to think on his feet. All of this, however, was mere child's play compared to the bonding process with his symbiote, the first of five.

While the group which broke Cole down had prepared him mentally for this bonding process, there were still some concerns over how the symbiote, code-named "Riot," would handle it. "Riot" was the first symbiotic "suit" which Redfern and his team had created from the original iteration, and there were plenty of concerns regarding how it would react to someone it did not share its genetic identity with. Given how they had scaled its metabolism back to accommodate Cole's more "standard" metabolism, the team was uncertain that the suit would be able to bond to its host. There was also concern over whether or not the symbiote, upon being introduced to this new human variable, would end up consuming Cole before attempting to escape, trying to track down its genetic match, or any other living descendants of the initial creator. Fortunately, Redfern eventually managed to concoct the idea of adding some of Cole's DNA to the "suit" before the bonding process began, in order to stabilize it and allow it to acclimate to its new host. After spending one month testing Riot and its abilities once it had bonded to Cole completely, which had taken another two months; they had deemed him ready for service and had Cole sent over to Latveria, where he had since remained stationed in the Life Foundation offices. The reasoning for placing Cole at the Life Foundation was two-fold: First, it was to monitor his progress, and then for convenience, since manufacturing a new identity and a new cover for him to work at would be far too taxing for Cryptkeeper now, having since moved into the full-fledged running of the operation. Since then, Cole had led a rather simple if highly regimented life, where he would go to work in the Life Foundation from nine-to-five and then come home, to perhaps do some reading or calibrate his equipment. Occasionally, he was phoned by headquarters to kill a target, although that did not always happen, and more often than not, he merely ended up in position, ready to take a shot, waiting for the authorization message that never came. At least, that's how it was for Cole until he received a text-message from headquarters instructing him to fly to New York City immediately and await further instructions.

He wasn't the first asset to get the message.

**Shanghai, China-** Erin Diego popped the pain-killer into her mouth and then swallowed it with a glass of water. She had gotten a migraine again, and this one was just as painful as the last one. Even though it was only one-thirty in the afternoon, Diego had already experienced three earlier headaches, and she was already anticipating a fourth and a fifth.

While any one of her co-workers in this glossy, glass-enclosed skyscraper might just peg her as another American businessperson trying to help her company insert their stock into Shanghai's stock exchange, Diego had far different goals when it came to American influence, since she was in fact the third "asset" which Operation Cryptkeeper possessed and could contact in a moment's notice. While Diego might not have dwelled on why she was residing in China's financial capital under a false alias, her superiors had a very good reason to place her there. After the dangerous battle the Ultimates had with the Liberators, a super-powered team which possessed many of the same capabilities as the Ultimates, the CIA and Cryptkeeper had determined it wise to place an asset in or near each of the countries which had produced a Liberator team-member. The CIA did have relatively solid relations with most of the countries responsible, but there was always a concern that, much like when the rogue elements of the French and Russian governments created "The Schizoid Man" and "Perun," any one of the countries could fail to keep the CIA in the loop, or prevent the agency from being able to pump their sources for information. Therefore, the American government needed an "ace in the hole," someone who could be used in case quick action needed to be taken against a foreign government official dreaming up a new Liberator project.

All of this foresight was undoubtedly beneficial for the American government, but for Diego, it sometimes felt like a painful dream. She would float through the workweek with a singular drive, zeroing in on her work or participating in meetings with both prospective buyers and her employers. This drive extended to simple household errands such as picking up groceries and cleaning her well-kept apartment, all of which was admired by her bosses, completely unaware that she retained a harsh sensitivity to light and frequent migraines, some of which struck her at the worst moments of the day. The headaches may have been programmed into her during her "conditioning" process, or were just some side-effect of the whole transition, much like her occasional dizzy spells or waves of queasiness. Whatever the cause, Diego could never consider why she always received these migraines, as ruminating on any thought which happened into her head might cause an increase in the pain, especially if it was not what she was supposed to be focusing on. The entire process of breaking down an asset for the Cryptkeeper program may make for a very determined assassin, but it also made for a poor conversationalist. All of her interactions with her bosses and co-workers were exceedingly formal, and no one had ever seen her apartment. If Diego had been able to think independently, she would have realized how desolate and lonely her life had become. Yet even trying to remember her past as a helicopter mechanic for the Army or how her parents pushed her to join the military to continue the family legacy provided her with a fresh wave of nausea, migraines, and dizziness, so she had simply stopped trying. Instead, she focused solely on her work and on the hope that the pain-killer would dull the ache enough for her to finish her client evaluations, in order to see who might have the necessary credit history to purchase a few shares of Stark Industries' stock.

Just as she had taken her seat in her glass-walled office, she heard a cell phone buzz. Her brown eyes darted over to her office cell phone, resting on her ultramodern desk. It was silent. Bending over in her chair, Diego took her leather messenger bag and popped it open, rooting around for her other cell phone. The one which nobody knew the number to except her real employers: Operation Cryptkeeper.

After finding her phone and flipping it open, she then dialed in her code, "Altai," which brought her to an encrypted text-message. In its current state, it was unreadable, but Diego typed in another code. Her code-name.

S-C-R-E-A-M

A loading bar then blinked onscreen before revealing the translated message.

_ATTN: REPORT TO NYC USA IMMEDIATELY. URGENT. ARRIVE AT 0900 HOURS LOCAL TIME IF FEASIBLE. AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS UPON ARRIVAL_

Diego flipped the cell-phone shut after deleting the message just before her boss, Lewis, opened her office door.

"Ally, do you have the budget report for last month? I'm about t—"

Diego didn't even let him finish. "Sir, I'm afraid something's come up with my family. There's been an emergency. I need to leave for New York City immediately."

**Antakya, Turkey-** Ramón Hernández, otherwise known in this part of the world as Kerem Asker, lay in his bed, trying to get some sleep. It was getting close to five o'clock in the morning, local time, and he needed the sleep. The day before he had been dispatched to Aleppo, Syria's largest city to "neutralize" a scientist who was suspected of being a part of the former Liberator project. Whether or not headquarters had their facts wrong, Hernández did not know or care. All he knew was that he had appropriately dispatched the scientist through a car bomb, inserting it right under the driver's seat while he was out to lunch. Hernández had watched the man come back to his car, enter it, and had activated the bomb with a pre-paid cell phone, one of two which he had found in a small garage, placed there by his handlers.

In the aftermath of the conflict between the Ultimates and the Liberators, the United States had gone through numerous actions to smooth over relations with Syria and several other countries which had produced the various Liberators, even though there were always a few stragglers which slipped through the cracks. After first threatening economic sanctions publicly, while secretly negotiating some arms packages from behind the scenes, the Syrian government had assisted the United States by raiding the homes and arresting those who had assisted in the training of "Swarm," Jan Pym's rival, and Colonel Abdul al-Rahman, Captain America's "other." While in the press it appeared as though both sides had engaged in tough talk, many insiders were well-aware that Syria was helping arrest the perpetrators, even leaning on Iran to extradite a few of their Liberator scientists. Still, for every arrest, there was always the possibility that a few scientists were not targeted, or had in fact escaped from their government's clutches.

That was where Hernández came in.

Overall, this past week had been extremely hectic, with Hernández having to be called in regularly, either getting him to Syria or Iran, in order to tie up loose ends in the ruins of the Liberator project. While S.H.I.E.L.D. and the FBI and the CIA were at odds with one another after the poorly-handled "Clone Saga," they all shared the common enemies of the Liberators. All three of the government bureaucracies were determined to erase or remove anyone who might have even been remotely connected to the project. S.H.I.E.L.D. had taken care of the actual Liberator group, the FBI had prosecuted those who were involved in the Liberator project, and the State Department was pushing heavily on the various countries to reform and hand over those responsible for the creation of the group. Meanwhile, the CIA had been operating very quietly, utilizing Operation Cryptkeeper to eliminate those the State Department could not reach through the various governments. The project was largely wrapping up thanks to Hernández and the other assets, meaning the Cryptkeeper program could focus on new missions. Such as the one mission Hernández had just received on his cell phone, to arrive in New York City, USA, immediately. Without so much as a sigh of exhaustion, Hernández abruptly got up off his bed and began packing, rooting around for his numerous passports.

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. -** After skimming through the various electronic notices which showed that each of the assets had in fact seen the text-message she had just sent out, Becky Rodgers pushed away from the computer console and took another sip of her drink. She had since switched to Coca-Cola after her brief meeting with Ryder, having found the coffee too distasteful to drink. She was currently in the communications chamber of the operation's headquarters, where many of the high-speed processors were located. A few of the other technicians had arrived in the last half-hour, and were currently sitting in the main nerve center, working on tapping into New York City's multiple closed-circuit television networks and compiling lists of where Redfern might go to distribute the top secret information he was believed to be carrying.

In mission, the technicians could contact the assets and field teams, but only Ryder and Rodgers could contact the assets beforehand, and only Ryder was allowed to authorize lethal action. Yet the assumption that Cryptkeeper was about to be exposed or rolled up had led to Rodgers taking some initiative to wrap up some remaining missions, something she hoped her boss would not care too much about, even though it was Ryder who had lethal authority, not Becky.

Regardless of any past misdeeds, Rodgers had done what was requested of her, and had sent messages to Scream, Riot, Lasher, and Ripper. Based on their current locations, it seemed unlikely that Scream and Ripper would be able to arrive in New York before the deadline, since Scream was in Shanghai and Ripper in Moscow. Still, Rodgers had no doubt that—

Ryder entered the darkened chamber, closing the door to stifle the light from the nerve center. "Did you reach everyone?"

Rodgers yawned. "Excuse me. Yeah, I managed to hit 'em all, although if you ask me, I think we're only going to be able to work with half of the assets. The other two aren't close enough to get to New York by zero-nine-zero-zero."

Ryder crouched down to peer at the computer monitor. "That's Scream and Ripper, right?"

"Yep."

Ryder, usually allowing her sentences to come forth in a staccato rhythm, paused for a moment, continuing to stare at the screen before standing back up. Finally, she said, "Becky?"

"Mmm?"

"I couldn't help but notice that quite a few of the missions we had opened when I had left are now cleared. Mind telling me what happened when I was gone?"

Rodgers licked her lips while the trepidation inside her began to reach a fever pitch. After a few moments of trying to control her tone and body language, she swiveled over in her chair and stared up at Rodgers. "How did you find out?"

"After you came in here to contact the assets, I went into my office, where I noticed the paperwork we had on the Algafari operation was closed. Now, I'm not sure exactly what happened several days ago, what with all of the consternation over Redfern and S.H.I.E.L.D., but I'm fairly certain that we hadn't wrapped it up yet. Am I correct?"

Rodgers blinked. "Yes."

Ryder nodded. "I thought so. Tell you what Becky. If you don't let this happen again without my explicit instructions, than I won't tell anyone that you exceeded your authority and may have killed someone we were trying to bring in alive, okay? If you can do that, than I promise that Tom or anyone else will never find out about this little mistake. Sound good?"

Rodgers couldn't say anything this time, but instead just slowly nodded obediently, quite chastened.

Ryder gave an alarmingly predatory smile. "Glad to hear it. Now, you're probably awfully tired, so I suggest you get home right now and get some rest. We're going to have a big day tomorrow, and I don't want any sloppiness. Got it?"

Rodgers said nothing as Ryder left the room, quietly closing the door behind her.

_The plot thickens…and the exposition continues! I personally found this chapter to be quite enjoyable to write, and hopefully, you'll enjoy it too, even though it does depart a long ways away from MJ's story arc. On the plus side, you now have a chapter named after the story __and__ an explanation for the name of the story (it's not the greatest name, but if anyone had a better idea, I'd be very interested in hearing it)! _

_That being said, I've noticed that there haven't been any real reviews on this story as of late. Part of that is definitely my responsibility. I probably should have tried to update this a little more frequently than I did. For that, I apologize. However, before I contribute any more, I would like to get some feedback. Are there any other readers interested in this story? Does anyone want to know what happens next? Is there something you don't like about the story? Please let me know in the "Review" section, and if I get some feedback, I'll happily post a new chapter. Thank you for those who may be reading, and please, by all means, let me know what you think! An author is only as good as the audience he has (and needs)! _


	21. Redfern

Aside from its many unique architectural features and cultural touchstones, New York City is also known as "The City that Never Sleeps." This moniker, shared by the cities of Tel Aviv, Buenos Aires, São Paulo, Barcelona, Mumbai, Belgrade, and Madrid, has always added to the mystique of a city in a constant cycle. This concept of a city which remains in constant motion could in fact be compared to the heartbeat in a human body, never stopping. Unfortunately, this unique trait had proven rather detrimental to MJ, who had since collapsed from exhaustion in an anonymous street sidewalk.

Steering clear of the busier avenues of city nightlife, MJ had cut through Battery Park before taking State Street to Bridge Street. From that point, she had walked on Broad Street, before turning on to Nassau and switching again onto Cedar Street. The need for continually changing streets was largely due to caution. MJ, the convict that she was, had opted to stay away from busy avenues with signs of drunken revelry, and late night partygoers, preferring the more subdued and empty business blocks. It was close to two o'clock in the morning, and even though MJ had no real knowledge of the time, she was aware that she was: _Way past my bedtime._

What drove MJ on was nothing more than basic instinct. Here she was, bedraggled, exhausted, and somewhat starving, since her body was accustomed to sleeping at this time, yet she kept going. The symbiote may have pushed her into this bizarre odyssey, but it no longer propelled her. She was operating on a more basic and rudimentary level than anything else, blind to her motivations, reasoning, and comprehension.

_What was I thinking? Listening to some other voice in my head, I must have been crazy…I don't even know where I'm going, and yet I'm still walking. I need sleep bad…_

While the suit may have kept up a lively commentary before, when MJ was in the dock house, it had apparently decided to shut up, which she was somewhat pleased with. _Man was it whiny, _she thought, approaching Broadway. _Of course it shuts up when I do what it wants me to do,_ as she felt a trace of bitterness creep into her thoughts. The fact was MJ had been questioning her reasoning behind following the creature's command, or, to put it more mildly, its suggestion. Initially, it appeared to have a sensible idea, but having walked for several miles, MJ no longer trusted her decision. It had taken over, and spirited her away from the Triskelion, and had persuaded her to continue and dodge S.H.I.E.L.D.'s clutches. The realization that she was becoming a pawn to the creature's whims filled her with disgust and anger, wishing she would have the temerity to turn around and await a pick-up from S.H.I.E.L.D. _Or at least, I would if I weren't so tired. _

As MJ's thoughts drifted, so too did her body, walking towards Broadway. It was late, so the likelihood that there would be droves of theatregoers was slim. If there was one good thing about being so tired, it was that she didn't have too much time to reflect on her recent past. In her cell at the Triskelion, she may have gotten plenty of rest and was well-fed, but she often awoke from horrid nightmares. Nightmares which might involve her getting tossed off the Queensboro Bridge, or seeing visions of Peter's deformed clone, among others. Sometimes, the dream wrapped them all up into one, leaving her shrieking as she woke up. Much of this MJ had since dismissed, since Peter had paid a visit to her which had allowed her to gain new perspective. Regrettably, this new direction in her life largely eliminated that refreshing perspective and the hope it brought.

_Peter…_

_I'm sorry. I let you down. _

That was it for her. She couldn't go on any longer. Those were her last thoughts, as she slouched down onto the pavement, shuffling some trash around her for camouflage and insulation before she drifted off to a black, deep, and fortunately, peaceful sleep.

If MJ fell asleep in a relatively peaceful manner, her waking was anything but.

Like an oversized alarm clock, several noisy beeps, sounding quite similar to a vehicle backing up, startled her awake, causing her to push as far away from the intrusive noise as possible. As a matter of fact, it _was_ a vehicle, or to be more specific, a garbage truck. Unlike MJ, the driver was ambivalent to her presence. His partner, who had dismounted however, was rather surprised by her sudden appearance.

"Are you—?"

MJ was gone before the man could finish his sentence.

_Ah! My neck_! MJ rather abruptly felt upon turning the corner. Clutching the back of her neck, she found a sharp pain, as though she had twisted a muscle. _Great,_ she thought, _just what I need. On top of everything else, I sleep wrong and hurt myself. Oh, and I'm hungry too...Hooray for me…_

_**Now who's whiny? **_

_Oh great, now __you're__ back…_

_**Calm yourself. We've reached our first objective. **_

_We?__ Who are you kidding,_ MJ thought irritably, massaging her neck as her eyes flicked around to see what it was the creature was talking about.

_Huh._

Evidently, she had walked further than she had thought. _No wonder I was so exhausted,_ as she pondered the _Capital One_ bank in front of her. Judging by the street signs around her, she was at Bowery Street, far from her initial assumptions of staying in Broadway. _Did I really walk that far?_ She looked around. It was early morning, and the sun beginning to shine some light on the street.

_**We should get inside. **_

_Did I—Was I sleepwalking? _

_**It's getting bright outside. It is imperative we retreat indoors, in case S.H.I.E.L.D. sees us. **_

_You're paranoid. _

_**Get inside. **_

Once again, MJ grudgingly followed the creature's commands, something which was becoming somewhat easier, much to her frustration.

The creature was making progress in re-wiring her mind.

As MJ stepped inside, she suddenly felt self-conscious. She was relatively unkempt, and wearing a prison uniform. What more, there were several security cameras, seven, if she was counting right.

_Great idea bringing me in here. Now it'll be much easier for S.H.I.E.L.D. to find me. _

The creature ignored her. _**Go to a teller. Ask for a safe-deposit box. Request number 4203. **_

___What? _

_**Just do it**_, the symbiote replied, prodding her on.

Looking around, she found the place to be relatively empty. According to the wall clock, it was close to six o'clock in the morning, something which, in a normal world, would result in her waking up in her bedroom and getting ready for school. The realization of this gulf between her previous and more ordinary life and this one was getting wider, and it took a fair amount of effort for MJ to choke back the emotion that was gathering in her throat. She was inherently miserable, but breaking down in this bank would do no good. Even her cell in one of the Triskelion's sub-basements was beginning to look good.

_Why'd I have to leave…? _

_**Get the safety-deposit box. **_

___Shut up. _

Filled with an assorted mixture of dread, nausea, and fear, MJ approached one of the tellers. The name "Brenda" was stamped on the metal tile near her window, and MJ approached with the utmost caution, worried that she'd be found out.

"Um…E—"

MJ stopped. Her voice was still thick with emotion, close to breaking. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and tried again.

"Excuse me?"

Brenda, who was typing away at her counter console, missed MJ's false start, but managed to hear her the second time. Turning to face her, MJ watched as Brenda's face turned from morning drowsiness to one of surprise.

_Oh man,_ MJ thought, as she began to sweat. _She knows who I am, she's going to call the police, she's—_

"Oh, uh—good morning! Is there something I can help you with?" Brenda's initial surprise at her customer's youthfulness had quickly reverted to pleasant blandness, with a polite smile thrown in for good measure.

While MJ initially assumed she would freeze again, forgetting the number the creature had instructed her to give to the teller; she was surprised to repeat it perfectly.

"Uh, yes. I have a safe-deposit box here. The number's four-two-zero-three."

Brenda immediately swiveled her gaze from MJ to the computer in front of her. After a few seconds of inputting the information, she looked back at MJ.

"Could I have your name for this box, please?"

This time MJ froze.

"Uh…"

_Great. _

The creature wasted no time. _**Your name is Tracy Ruby. **_

"Tracy Ruby."

_What kind of name is that? _

Brenda raised an eyebrow, but said nothing, choosing to instead turn her attention back to her screen. What happened next caused MJ's heart to skip a beat, if only for a moment. Brenda's eyes widened and her eyebrows rose in surprise. At first, MJ thought her reaction meant that she realized she was some sort of truant, about to call security, or the police, or S.H.I.E.L.D. However, none of those concerns were realized. Instead, all Brenda did was turn back to MJ.

"Alright, Miss Ruby, if you'll just follow me, I'll show you to a room where you can inspect the contents of your box."

Inside the room was a bland and cracked desk, one chair, and a wastepaper basket. MJ was instructed to sit down, and waited while Brenda retrieved the box. Overall, MJ was still feeling very uneasy about this whole thing. It had been too easy, it was a trap, there was nothing inside of the box, it was useless, it was—

_**Calm yourself. **_

MJ closed her eyes and took another deep breath. She was running on adrenaline alone here. She hadn't eaten anything in over four hours, and was wondering how much longer she'd be able to go on. With no money, and no other—

"Here we are, Miss Ruby. You are welcome to stay in this room for 20 minutes in order to inspect the contents of your box. After that, I will have to take the box back to the vault. You are welcome to place anything into or remove anything from the box. If you have questions, I'll be outside."

After unlocking the box with a key, Brenda gently closed the door, leaving MJ alone. Licking her lips and looking around to see if there were any cameras or people nearby, MJ uneasily opened the box.

The lid was cool to her touch, and when she opened it up, she found herself gasping in surprise. The first thing she noticed was a wallet, with what appeared to be a very costly and rugged wristwatch. Both of these items appeared to be of high-quality, and she couldn't help but marvel at how much they must've cost. Her thoughts soon turned elsewhere, however, after removing the wallet to find a small handgun, coupled with a magazine.

_A gun? Oh man…what is this doing in here? How did you know about this box? Did you put this in here? _

_**We**__** put it in there. Before the Urich job. Before Redfern. As a safety precaution. The other materials would have been moved from your bedroom to this box if you hadn't disrupted the plan. **_

___Disrupted? Plan? What are you talking about?_

_**You don't remember? It was the day you broke our connection, when drastic measures had to be taken to preserve the bond. The day S.H.I.E.L.D.—**_

_I hate this. I'm-I'm not a murderer. What happened earlier…that was an accident. I can't do this. I don't want this. _

_**Then don't take the gun. But the remaining contents should be taken. They are imperative for our survival. **_

Without wanting to touch the weapon, MJ looked at the other remaining contents, where she promptly noticed one of the eight stacks of currency. Picking one up, she was amazed to find a few twenties, multiple fifties, and at least several hundred-dollar bills.

_Wow…this is more money than I've ever seen in my whole life…This-this could've paid for college…where did all of this come from…? _

_**The elements of this box were received by you from a dead-drop in Bryant Park. Now get all of the money into the wallet. We need new attire. **_

___We're going shopping? _

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. -** After a few hours of rest, Becky Rodgers was back in the office, sorting the relevant information Ryder would need for her morning briefing. Or rather, the _late morning _briefing, compared to the one o'clock in the morning directive her boss had issued to her. Walking through the halls, she noticed that at least a few of her co-workers were equally dead-eyed as she was earlier. Ryder drove them hard, at least harder than she had in the past.

This was something Rodgers was finding rather curious, and was beginning to mull it over more and more frequently. While it's true Ryder was a demanding boss, it wasn't like her to be _this _driven. True, they'd worked some late nights, but she often was willing to give her employees a break the next day, letting the late shift come in later than usual while the morning shift picked up the slack. Now, however, some sort of possession had come over Ryder. While Rodgers hadn't noticed it last night, she was beginning to reflect on what Ryder had been doing and saying. She was writing down information on a notepad, something she had never done before. Leaving a paper trail, even if you weren't working in the field was exceptionally risky. It was just a habit you picked up if you worked long enough in the Clandestine Service of the CIA, and Ryder had been in that division for quite some time. Why was she writing notes down now? Her veiled threat to Rodgers had also come as a surprise. Ordinarily, she and Rodgers had always gotten along respectfully and, when the occasion called for it, jovially. But her alarming smile suggested a ferocity Rodgers had never seen in her boss before. While it may have made sense for Ryder to be angry at her for exceeding her authority, there seemed to be something else in her reply, something Rodgers couldn't quite put her finger on.

Regardless of what she thought her boss had gone through at Langley, Rodgers didn't have time to focus on it. She had to focus on the briefing. As befitting the traditional formal custom between the two, Rodgers approached her boss's door and knocked.

"Come in, Becky."

Hoping Ryder would be in a better mood, Rodgers opened the door with a pleasant smile. "Morning!"

"So what do we have?"

_No time for pleasantries, apparently,_ Rodgers thought.

"Well, if you'll just take a look at these files, you'll see that we've more or less managed to narrow the list down to potential locations where Redfern might go with his information."

Rodgers took a seat across from Ryder's desk, spreading out a series of documents from a briefing folder. "Already, we've received updates from two of our assets in the fields. Riot and Lasher have either just landed, or were about to, and the various surveillance and grab teams are ready to go."

Ryder never made eye contact with Becky, choosing to instead examine the print-outs and other papers. "Right. So what locations might Redfern head to?"

"Well, based on analysis, it could be any number of places. Assuming he remains in New York City, he could go anywhere from the _New Yorker_ offices in Times Square, to the _Times _on 8th Avenue, to the _Wall St. Journal_. He may even try to go back to the _Bugle._

Ryder said nothing immediately, continuing to mull over the documents laid out on her desk. Eventually, she looked up at Rodgers.

"So what you're telling me is that we still don't know for sure where he's going to appear?"

"Well," Rodgers responded uneasily, shifting in her seat, "not exactly. I mean, like you said, New York City's a big place, with plenty of varied media outlets. It's not exactly easy to predict, much less narrow down where he might appear next. We don't even know if he would show up at a media outlet."

While Rodgers was ambivalent, Ryder was crisp and focused. "Well it's unlikely he'd be going to any federal office. What he'd be bringing with him would be very incriminating, and I doubt S.H.I.E.L.D. or the FBI or anyone else would be willing to grant him complete immunity if he showed up with evidence of illegal genetic experimentation. Local's uninterested and not equipped for this sort of thing, so yes, I'd imagine he'd go to a media outlet."

Rodgers was impressed by her boss's reasoning, and was frankly feeling a bit like an idiot for not putting the pieces together sooner. "Right. Well, if you were to make that assumption, than I guess you can ignore most of the data on the various law enforcement offices and focus on the media centers. If you think of his previous behavior, it looks as though he'd ignore web-based outlets and head directly for the ones which might make more of a splash."

"So that would be…newspapers, magazines, or television?"

"Right. And seeing how he can't leave New York, and seeing how we've seized his remaining monetary assets, I imagine he'd go for something which could be transmitted to the public immediately."

"Which would remove magazine publications from the equation…"

"…And newspapers, probably, although seeing how they have websites now too, I'd rather not completely eliminate them from the roster…"

Ryder nodded. "Makes sense," she murmured, looking back at the document detailing all of the likely places Redfern might go with his precious information. Frowning, she began to notice something appeared to be missing."

"What do we have on back doors?"

"Hmm?"

"Back doors. What do we have in case Redfern, say, doesn't go into any of these buildings, and instead conveys the information electronically?"

"Ah…I understand. We've got NSA actually working on that. They'll intercept any e-mails, phone calls, or anything else with a Cryptkeeper code-word embedded in it. If it has our names, or the names of the assets, or his name, then they'll intercept it, block it from reaching its original destination, and track down the location the message originated from."

Ryder nodded. "Sounds good," she replied satisfactorily, handing the contents of the folder back to Rodgers. "I want the assets we have on the ground to be aware of Redfern's appearance, and that they have the green light if they find him."

Rodgers eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Wait, you want the assets to get first crack at Redfern? Wouldn't it be easier if—?"

Ryder cut her off. "No. Last time we relied on the Grab Teams, we lost Redfern, and simply wounded a journalist. The Grab Teams and Surveillance Teams are merely there to box Redfern in when we find him. The assets will complete the job. I want this loose end tied up very tightly. Don't you remember me saying that last night?"

"Oh, well, yes, I guess I kind of forgot," Rodgers replied sheepishly, realizing that Ryder was probably right. She had simply forgotten because she had been exhausted.

"Well, just make sure it doesn't happen again. Now, relay that information onto the rest of the staff. I'll join you shortly."

**New York City, New York- **While Rodgers was carrying out her boss's orders, MJ had been getting her strength back. Armed with around five-thousand, maybe six-thousand dollars, by her rough estimation, MJ had eaten a breakfast at the _McDonald_'s on Canal Street before taking a nap. She had then taken a cab to the _Macy_'s on Fulton Street. The symbiote naturally protested over MJ taking a cab and choosing to shop at a more high-end store instead of a smaller and more anonymous thrift store, but MJ still retained a portion of free will, and was not entirely tethered to the creature's decision-making process. She was not about to walk several hundred feet to a _McDonald's_ and then several hundred more feet to try and find a thrift store, if she could even find any near her current location. And she was definitely not going to continue on until she had caught some more sleep.

_If I'm going to do what you say, I'd rather do it my own way. It's bad enough you're still in me without having to listen to you all the time. _

She had taken her time with her junk-food meal, enjoying every last bite. The creature might have preferred MJ only purchase something quickly and then leave the premises, yet she felt she deserved it, especially after trekking out this whole way. After her lengthy nap, which stretched on for a few hours, MJ left the _McDonald's_ and entered a cab.

_**It was unwise of you to sleep in there. **_

__Having just woken up again, MJ was in no mood to argue.

_ Sorry. Not interested. _

_**Sleeping leaves us vulnerable. It should only be done in a private, enclosed setting. Not somewhere public. **_

While the creature was scolding MJ, it actually welcomed her moment of weakness. True, the creature may have made valid points, but every time MJ became dormant, it provided a new opportunity to delve even further into her psyche, to try and re-establish its previous state of perfect symbiosis, both in body and mind. Her snide remarks in the bank and her steadfast refusal to remain furtive needed to be corrected, and the creature was currently trying to flex its influence over the host.

_You still haven't said where I should going after this. Do you even know what I'm supposed to be looking for? _

_**We'll find him soon enough.**_

__The cryptic reply was the last thing MJ was interested in hearing. _Him? Who's 'him?' All this time you've told me exactly what to do, and __now__ you decide to sound all mysterious? _

_**Patience. **_

___You said this guy can help us. He could help __me__. You better not be lying…_

_**I don't lie about our creator. Carl Redfern is the best man to help us. Not the fools in S.H.I.E.L.D. They are ignorant of our capabilities. Redfern understands us, gave us the power necessary to—**_

MJ cut off the creature's thoughts. _I get it. He's one hell of a guy. I just hope __you __can find him..._

_**We.**__** Not you. **_

_Whatever. _

The cab stopped at the corner. Using her leftover change from breakfast, MJ paid the driver before heading to the store.

Upon entering the small and simple store, MJ was surprised by how busy it seemed. While not as crowded as on holidays, it still seemed to be filled with people.

_Doesn't anyone have to work in the morning? _

MJ, as she was prone to do in the past with Liz, browsed through the various aisles of clothing, seeking something which…which…

_Huh,_ she thought, feeling an odd thought floating up out of her consciousness, _why do I feel like grabbing some darker colored clothing? Did __you__ have anything to do with this? _

The symbiote remained silent, not venturing a reply.

MJ shook the feeling off. Maybe it was just one of those—what do you call them—survival instincts? That must've been it. Makes more sense to wear darker colored clothing, anyways. Harder to spot. Anonymous. Her "other" couldn't be messing with her, right?

MJ certainly hoped not, suppressing a shudder at the mere thought of the parasite rearranging her brain, recalling her earlier predictions. She desperately hoped they weren't coming true.

A few moments later, and MJ was set, having purchased the clothing, and then rather surreptitiously, borrowing one of the dressing rooms to lose the prison wear in favor of her new attire. Looking at herself, she was briefly taken aback by her appearance. Gone were the flip flops, the Capri pants. Gone were the bangles and bracelets, the hairclips sprinkled liberally throughout her hair! What MJ saw through the mirror was a grim-looking figure, with her greasy hair hanging low around her head. She wore dark-colored jeans, a blank dark blue t-shirt, and an inky black jacket, lightweight with plenty of pockets. Instead of her traditional athletic sneakers she wore for gym, or her sandals she wore for everything else, she had instead purchased dull utilitarian work boots, ones which were as dark as the rest of her appearance. And her current state-of-mind too.

_**Very nice,**_ the symbiote seemingly purred. _**Now we shall blend in easily. All that is left to do is dye your hair. **_

That caught MJ's attention.

_What? _

_**Your hair is too vivid and noticeable. It must be changed to achieve total anonymity. **_

_You can't be serious. _

_**You know it's for the best,**_ the symbiote replied in a soothing manner, attempting the same trick it had accomplished in the dock house. _**If we are to find Redfern, we must ensure that nobody detects us. We no longer resemble a high school child. Changing your hair will allow for more mobility, a new identity. **_

_No. _

_**Did you just refuse a direct command? **_

_You're not in charge of me. I'll—_

_**We are COOPERATING. There is no—**_

_No what? Bossing me around? Like a teacher? A parent? No. You __are __trying to control me, and you've been controlling me. And I may have done everything you've told me to do, but this—dyeing my hair—I can't do it. I won't. It's too much. _

_**You **__**WILL**__** obey. **_

MJ felt another surge of dopamine, much like the when she was in the dock house. This time, however, she was not as exhausted, not easily swayed.

_Why? You've already taken everything else that I loved and I cared about. You've taken my family away from me, my house, my friends, my—even my personality doesn't feel the same. You've taken everything else away from me, and now you want to take my identity too? No, I'm not going to let you take the one last part of me away. Forget it. _

The creature was beginning to grow irritated. Its persuasion techniques and chemical releases were not working. It would have to up the ante.

_**We will cooperate. Whether you willingly go along, or if I need to override your motor functions, we will cooperate. **_

_ Go ahead. Try it. But I'm not going to let you manipulate me into removing my last bit of dignity. _

There was a brief interlude between this mental argument. It lasted for several minutes.

_**Fine. Your hair won't be dyed. We'll function without any more cosmetic modifications. **_

__The creature's tone was snippy and angry. MJ allowed herself a small smile.

_That's what I thought. Now where is this Redfern you keep bringing up? _

After MJ checked herself for price tags, she then stuffed her prison jumpsuit and matching slip-ons into the _Macy's_ bag and left the store, pleased with her victory, however small it may have seemed.

Now she would seek out this "Redfern."

As MJ left the department store, Carl Redfern, approximately six or so blocks over, was rather manically attempting to re-send several video files from an e-mail he had just created in the Brooklyn Heights Library. For some reason, his personal e-mail didn't work. He couldn't access it. Initially concerned, he soon realized that of _course_ it made sense that he wouldn't be able to access his e-mail. The people who were after him had probably shut it down on purpose. This snafu didn't concern Redfern too much. It would be a piece of cake to create a new account, Google the e-mail addresses of several producers of nightly news broadcasts, and send out the information. At least that was how he had envisioned it. But after he had set up a new _Yahoo_ e-mail account and send off the video files from his flash-drive, he found that an error message continually popped up. The e-mail wouldn't go through, no matter how many times he hit "Refresh."

Redfern first thought that this was simply a computer error. Therefore, he had rebooted the computer, asked the librarian again for a guest account so he could use the computer once more, and tried to re-send the e-mail. The error message popped up again. He tried switching to a computer to his left, before moving again to the one on his right. The error message continued to appear.

ERROR: This message cannot be delivered as sent.

Now he was beginning to sweat. Sending these files was his last chance for redemption, his last opportunity to finesse his way out of this hole he had dug himself into. He was out of money, and couldn't pay the rent for the _Holiday Inn_ room anymore, much less access his bank account. He was desperate. And now the e-mails couldn't get sent? This was no coincidence. It couldn't be. They had found him, one way or another, and he was screwed. The mouse in the mousetrap. Nowhere else to go. Looking around, he noticed a few of the other patrons were having similar problems with their computers. The librarians were beginning to get swamped.

_Guess I'll head to the next—_

_ Oh shit. _

Redfern first noticed them as he was standing up and getting ready to go. Several bulky guys were strolling into the building, fanning out, swiveling their heads from side to side. They were searching for someone. This might have made plenty of people nervous, given their formidable appearances, but what caused Redfern's blood to run cold was the appearance of a man whom Redfern recognized, someone he hadn't seen in quite a while.

_Riot…_

Well that did it for Redfern. No sooner did he spot the first of his "creations," before he broke out into an open sprint, desperate to put as much distance between him and killer pursuing him. Naturally, rational thinking was not in his current frame of mind, which is why Redfern bounded up a flight of stairs, narrowly dodging several people coming down.

"Excuse me, you can't—"

Redfern had already passed them by the time the employee finished her sentence, with Trevor Cole starting his ascent.

_What the __HELL,_ Redfern thought as he pushed open the door to the second floor. _What were you thinking, going up to the second floor? Damndamndamndamn DAMN!_

Redfern heard footsteps behind him quickly approaching the door. They were gaining.

Spinning around, Redfern tried to cobble together a plan, some way to get out of the building as fast as possible. Nothing special came to mind. He tried a few of the doors near the stairwell. They were locked.

_Shit._

Much like the sensation one feels when plunging downward in an elevator, Redfern felt something similar, a feeling of his stomach rising as the noose tightened, the executioner's axe swinging downward.

_Why are they trying to kill me, anyways? Isn't that illegal…?_

Suddenly, like a life preserver being thrown down, he spotted a bathroom door. His moment of salvation. Running surprisingly fast, Redfern bolted through the door. Sprinting towards the first stall he could, Redfern swung the door open wide before bringing it back. The door was a mere two, maybe one inch away from the locking mechanism.

_Almost…there…_

Redfern was drenched in sweat, his days-old dress shirt practically transparent. One more second, and he'd be safe. He'd have to be.

The door stopped.

Redfern glanced up quickly to notice a gloved hand grasped firmly around the top of the stall door. Without any more warning, the door was wrenched wide open again and there Cole stood. Imposing. Cold. Dispassionate.

His executioner.

Redfern did not know what he would have done if he could have foreseen this scenario. Maybe he thought he would have fought back. Or try to escape. He probably would have never thought that he would remain frozen in place, gazing in horror upon this man, this soulless killer he had helped create.

Cole gave no quarter, charging into the stall, ramming Redfern up against a wall before pulling out a switchblade, long and lethal.

The knife plunged into Redfern's chest, right in the heart; the assassin's other hand muffling his possible shouts for help.

As he was lowered onto the floor, the knife removed from his body, Redfern was surprised by how quiet it was. There was no noise, and he had never made a sound, even before getting stabbed. Instead, it just felt…peaceful. Nothing more to worry about. He didn't even notice Cole going through his pockets, grabbing his wallet and flash drive.

Redfern drifted off.

Blackness.

Nothing.


	22. Discoveries

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. –** Sarah Ryder once again stared up at the large central projection screen in Operation Cryptkeeper's bullpen, Carl Redfern's face staring back at her. The large "Eliminated" stamp popped up, cutting the man's face into two diagonal sections. Ordinarily, when a mission of this sort is carried out, there really is no elation. No high-fives, no sighs of relief, nothing.

This time, however, Ryder allowed herself a slight smile, so small that almost everyone else in the room missed it. Ryder's biggest thorn in her side had just been eliminated.

_Got you, you son of a bitch. _

Ryder, however, was not one for drawing out the celebrations. She had other tasks to tend to. After her small, private moment of happiness, she approached Rodgers.

"Becky, do you think you could wrap this mission up? I've got some calls I need to make, other items I need to take care of."

Rodgers, who had stolen a quick glance at her boss before she had been approached, nodded her head in assent. After Ryder strutted back to her office, Rodgers turned the task at hand. It was not going to be easy. Or pleasant.

"Okay, Waxley. I want you to draw up the plans for this building, than craft several exit routes for the Grab Teams to take."

Waxley looked at her askance. "No offense, ma'am, but it seems like it would be pretty obvious what just went down anyways. Why bother with the secrecy?"

Rodgers smiled wryly. "Because that way we don't get in trouble with our superiors."

"And the body?"

Rodgers sighed, knowing that Redfern's corpse would be the elephant in the room. "I haven't decided how to take care of him yet. Let's just have a Surveillance Team sit on him for now. Maybe Mobile Two and Mobile Four?"

Waxley swiveled around in his chair, satisfied with Rodgers' response. Not that she was really paying attention, since she had to field at least a dozen or more questions from all of the other staff members, such as whether or not there needed to be autopsy to confirm Redfern's death, and if so, should it should be a "sub rosa," or secretive inspection? Should they leave an ID on Redfern, or not? Should the teams move him into the alleyway, in order to provide better cover, and if so, which exit could they take? Should they call in police backup in order to cordon the area off, or would that raise too many questions? Do the assets still need to be in New York City, or can they resume their original postings? All of these questions and more were flung at Rodgers, who either deferred briefly or answered them right away. Yes, there should be a sub rosa autopsy right away. No ID on the body, as that covers our tracks better. Since we need an autopsy, we won't move him until one of the Grab Team's vans pulls up to the nearest exit. Put the assets in a holding pattern. Leave them in New York until we get the go-ahead to pull out from Sarah. No, no police cooperation. Too risky.

Perhaps it was this last response of hers that caused her creeping sense of unease to blossom into a full moral alarm. True, in the past, Operation Cryptkeeper had evaded the authorities numerous times before, but this was different. _And now we're killing our own_, Rodgers thought grimly, staring at Redfern's face from his government ID snapshot on the screen. This was largely the reason for her disquiet in suggesting that they don't involve the police with this clean-up. Sure, it was ugly ordering assassinations on anybody whom her boss deemed a "threat" to national security, and she had been unfailingly loyal to Ryder's demands, but this seemed to cross a sacred line. Even if she was able to keep her reserves in check while following her boss's orders, that didn't stop her from considering the moral implications. In the past, a whistleblower might, at the very least, get slapped with a lawsuit or a possible jail term. Killing them seemed overblown, an unnecessarily superfluous reaction to Redfern's actions. As Rodgers digested the information the technicians were spitting back at her, she could not help but wonder if this operation could sink any further into an immoral morass. What made it worse was seeing Ryder's smile. She was the last person Rodgers expected to—

"Uhh…ma'am?"

Rodgers' ruminations were cut off abruptly by Danielle, another technician.

"What is it?"

"It's, well…we got another notice from the NSA. Someone was trying to Google us."

Rodgers raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Google us? Do you really think that's a cause for alarm?"

"Well…"

Rodgers let out a sigh of exasperation before walking over to Danielle's desk. "Look, our operation's code-name is Cryptkeeper. It's a stupid name, I'll grant you that, but it's the name we're stuck with. The chances of someone specifically searching for us are fairly unlikely. Chances are they were looking for something else. I mean, the only way we'd be able to tell is if—"

Rodgers trailed off as she bent over to look at Danielle's screen. What she saw did not make her happy.

"I'll go get Sarah," she said before jogging briskly down the hall to Ryder's office.

**New York City, New York – **Mary-Jane Watson, in the meantime, had taken a cab from _Macy's_ to the nearest library in the area. Her hope was to do a little research on Redfern, maybe find an address if she could, and then simply get there by whatever means necessary.

Little did she know she would find Redfern far sooner than she had anticipated.

Pulling up to the entrance of the Brooklyn Heights Library, MJ couldn't help but notice as she paid the driver that there seemed to be a fair amount of activity near the Clinton Street exit of the building. Her first thought which caused the hair on the back of her neck to stick up was that it was S.H.I.E.L.D., setting up a team to either monitor or arrest her. If this was the case, it might be better for her to try and casually swing by the exit to see if they were S.H.I.E.L.D.

_Better to be safe than sorry…_she thought, before asking the driver to drive around the corner and let her off behind the library's main entrance.

_**Now you're learning…**_

As the taxicab approached the corner of Cadman Plaza West and Clinton Street, a silver-gray minivan that was in front of them suddenly made a sweeping U-turn, pulling directly into the opposite lane. Here the van stopped, directly across from the library's exit Clinton Street exit. Joltingly, MJ felt the driver apply the cab's brakes as the van made its disruptive turn.

The cabbie rolled down his window. "Hey, c'mon! I'm trying to drive here!" After he had finished his tirade, he rolled his window back up, looking at MJ in the mirror.

"Sorry about that, kiddo."

"I'm okay," MJ replied, looking out her window to try and determine what the van's rush was. _Yeah right. That's the __last thing__ I'm feeling right now. _The cab drove a few more feet.

_Well, guess I might as well get this over with. _

"You can stop here, thanks."

"You sure?"

"Yeah…this is good."

Once again, MJ left the cab and attempted to pay the driver, who this time waived the fee since it was just a short distance from her original destination. Looking over at where the van was (illegally) parked, with its emergency signals flashing, MJ wondered how she could slip by them without attracting attention. Without really thinking about it, MJ put a hand up into her hair. Maybe…if she had just—

_**I told you we should have dyed your hair. **_

__The unwarranted comment and the I-told-you-so tone of the parasite drove the niggling doubts out of her head.

_Please. _

_**You were thinking it. **_

___Is this going to be a thing? I didn't dye my hair. Get over it. _

Now determined to demonstrate to the creature that she was right in not dyeing her hair, MJ strode purposefully over to the park, where she counted at least four men, all wearing nondescript clothing. That number had since doubled since she had spotted them from the library's entrance.

_**Don't approach these personnel too closely. **_

MJ was ignoring the creature's nagging, choosing to instead casually eye them before bending down to grab a newspaper from one of the depositories on the street side, across from the park.

_Nice and easy. Don't panic, just walk normally. No need to get freaked out…yet. Huh. Is it just me, or is it getting easier to tell who these guys are? I can see his—what do you call it—his earpiece. Are they waiting for someone? Me? __No__. I can't let myself think like that. I'm just walking around, going to grab a newspaper like any other normal person. _

Despite her mounting panic, and the ever-increasing tension she was feeling from walking so close to these mystery men and women, none of them ever paid her any attention. There might have been a cursory glance or two, but they seemed to be doing that to every passerby. It was when MJ was looking over what publication to take when the group finally sprang into action.

Happening surprisingly fast, the minivan's rear side-door slid wide open, and the library's exit door did the same. Two men, the first with short, blond hair and a caramel-colored jacket, the second taller with longer black hair and a beat-up windbreaker yanked the gate's doors open. A woman with auburn hair started talking into her jacket. Worried that her lingering presence might begin to attract attention from this group, MJ randomly yanked a paper out of a yellow bin, and briskly walked to the corner, daring a quick look behind her.

Which was about the same time the agents brought out Carl Redfern.

Seeing this slumped figure, with his arms draped over two other men caused MJ to feel a sense of déjà vu. Although his face was indistinguishable from her current vantage point, the bright red hair, which was clipped quite short, had a certain familiarity to it.

_**Redfern. **_

___Redfern? Where? Is he—_

_**Nine o'clock. Short red hair. **_

_ What? That's him? But he looks…_

_**Dead. He's been eliminated. **_

__MJ was not sure how the creature had managed to deduce that. After all, it looked to her as if he had just been knocked out, or wounded.

_Are you sure? He can't be dead. He doesn't look it. They could've just—_

_**He is. His body temperature has fallen below the acceptable threshold necessary for sustaining life. It's getting colder, and rigor mortis is bound to set in soon. **_

___Oh man…_

The minivan, after Redfern's corpse had been loaded in, scurried off, with relief coming across the faces of the unhappy motorists which had gathered directly behind the vehicle. The remaining agents broke up, some getting into other vehicles parked alongside the library, others choosing to stick to the sidewalk. Many of them passed MJ without a second glance. Despite this return to normality, MJ was beginning to feel rather dizzy, grasping the fence in order to steady herself. The trail may have gone cold, but that was the farthest thing from her mind. Right now, she was beginning to feel rather nauseous. She had seen too many bodies, more people had been killed around her than she had ever expected. Or wanted. And it had all happened so fast. Now she knew what Peter goes through.

_Oh God…_MJ thought, _how do you do it, Peter? _

_**It would appear as though Redfern was eliminated because of what transpired earlier. It's unlikely we would find any motive for this decision, unless we locate those who initiate these directives. **_

_Who cares? _MJ thought bitterly, frustrated with the creature's unrelenting logic.

_**You should, if it means solving this matter. **_

___I don't want to solve anything! I just want this…to stop. _

_**You aren't thinking clearly. **_

___Of __course__ I'm not thinking clearly! I'm sixteen years old! I don't—I don't want to see things like this! A man is dead and all you can think of is what the next step should be? _

_**You're forgetting who else is involved in this. **_

___Really? And I should care why? _

_**Because he's your boyfriend. He was there the day we almost eliminated Urich. There could have been an exchange. It was mentioned on the radio that day that Urich was carrying a black case when he left the apartment building. It is possible Peter has it, and any potential notes the case might have contained. **_

__That snapped MJ out of her shock. _Peter's in danger? _

_**It is feasible. We cannot be certain, but there is a possibility. **_

__That was enough persuasion for Mary-Jane. She needed to get to Queens. Fast.

**The Triskelion, New York City, New York – **Much like how MJ was in crisis mode, so too was S.H.I.E.L.D., surveying the damage from Watson's escape last night while also attempting to cobble together a task-force to apprehend her. Carol Danvers, cradling her coffee, was not happy with the situation. She had been called in pretty much immediately after MJ had leaped out of the Triskelion and into the harbor waters. Danvers had never gotten back to bed.

"You know, I don't think it's too much to ask here. This is a high-security facility, right? You'd think it would be possible to keep all of these prisoners contained."

"Yes ma'am."

"Not that I'm complaining. I realize that there are a lot of people who have worked hard to make this place safe and secure. And our rate is still pretty good. We only have one or two escapees, unless, of course, Osborn chooses to check out. You know, before we offed him."

"Yes ma'am."

"I guess what I'm trying to say is that I wish, I _really wish_ Fury had come up with a better system. If we had distributed our…'prisoners' a little more evenly, across more facilities, than maybe this wouldn't have happened!"

"Yes ma'am."

Danvers took another deep breath, a sip of her coffee, and dropped back down into her office chair. She had finished her rant. Now she could focus on the actual details. Her lieutenant Channing had gracefully taken her diatribe since the agent in charge of Watson was still in the medical wing.

"Anyways," Danvers said, leaning back slightly, fighting to remain awake before her eighth cup of coffee kicked in, "what's the damage?"

Danvers had already heard about how Watson had managed to escape, and had to grudgingly give her some credit in her methodology. The protocol for medical care on all prisoners would of course have to be addressed, but this was really not the time for it. She had to tend to damage assessment, first and foremost. As it turned out, however, the number of casualties and the amount of damage to the building were relatively slim, much to her surprise. True, two guards had been killed by Watson, and Parton, the head of the Triskelion's medical wing, had sustained severe injuries and was in critical condition, but according to Channing, he would pull through. Add in the other survivors: both of the other members of the EMT and Carter, and one could consider this to be a good day for S.H.I.E.L.D.

If not for the fact that they were still missing a highly dangerous and—quite possibly—mentally unstable prisoner.

This was probably the most innately infuriating thing Danvers had to deal with as Acting Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. Not only did she have to worry about super-powered escapees, but she also had to worry about civilian casualties. And there were always civilian casualties, especially when one of their _really _dangerous prisoners escaped. Oftentimes these people were highly unstable not just in the physical and genetic sense, but also in the mental sense. These people usually went back to their former haunts, or back to their former allies, which more often than not led to a grisly confrontation, with assumptions being made that their allies sold them out. Osborn was one such example, Octavius another. Even though she had only been a captain at the time when Octavius had first escaped from S.H.I.E.L.D. custody after the Osborn lab explosion, she had heard of the carnage he had inflicted upon invading his old home. It was, in the end, a waiting game, in which S.H.I.E.L.D. would be forced to follow the bloody trail of bread crumbs before finally managing to apprehend their quarry. The trick was get to them fast enough, before they could wreak too much havoc.

So of course it didn't help that the one person who could lead the effort to arrest Watson was still out cold in the infirmary. Sure, Danvers had already decided to place James Woo onto Carter's taskforce, since he had worked with her in the past, but he would have to be read in, and that took time. If Carter had not inhaled the sleeping agent, than they could have started tracking her immediately. Not that they hadn't started already, but tracking the GPS chip in her jumpsuit only carried them so far.

_Oh well_, she thought dryly. _The "perks" of being the director of S.H.I.E.L.D._ _Always having to make adjustments. _

Now that the overall picture had been filled in for her by her lieutenant, Danvers called in her other two appointments: Curt Conners and Nicky Williams.

After they had both taken a seat, and after Channing had left, Danvers dove right into it.

"So let me tell you what's happened so far. We have surveillance on the Parker household and on the former Watson household. I have placed James Woo and—provided the techs can wake her up in time—Sharon Carter in charge of spearheading the effort to stop Mary-Jane Watson before she causes any more damage, civilian or otherwise. What I need to know is what our surveillance teams should look out for, and the best way for the task-force to find and apprehend her. What her weaknesses are, her strengths. Will we need special weapons, and if so, what kinds? What's her mental state like? These are all questions I need answered by you…_now._"

The lack of introductions or formal conversational cues surprised Conners, who was more accustomed to getting a heads-up before having to provide a briefing, which was why he did not respond immediately. Williams, however, who had been with S.H.I.E.L.D. far longer than Conners, was not caught flat-footed.

"Well Director, based on my previous reports, I'm afraid I haven't quite established a very clear pattern of behavior in Ms. Watson. She was very…recalcitrant and unwilling to cooperate before, but after Mr. Parker came by, she seemed to be more willing to allow us to perform psychoanalysis on her. She could have been deceitful during her encounter with her boyfriend though, but I can't say that's the case right now."

"So she could have been lying?"

Williams shrugged. "Maybe. It would make sense, since it would correspond to her specific age group, which may lie to get what they want. Although I don't want to say that for certain, since she had just experienced a wide array of mental trauma and duress over the past few days, and I haven't spotted any previous behavior to indicate a compulsive need to lie."

"What you're saying then is…you don't know for sure what her current mental state is?"

"Unfortunately yes. If she had remained within the Triskelion for a few more days, than I could have run a battery of tests on her, in order to see what her psyche was like, and what the parasite might have done to alter it. But that isn't the case. Sure, she did say she felt that the creature was rearranging her mind, but that isn't enough information for me to make any reasonable conclusions. At best, I can estimate that she is in the process of experiencing, or about to experience, a heavy dose of PTSD, which could make her highly erratic and dangerous. She could get set off from the mildest of stimuli. And even then, it's hard for me to say what she might do."

"Could she—I don't know—revert to her altered genetic state when experiencing the PTSD?"

Williams sighed. "Like I said, I don't know for sure what her mental state is, and what might happen when she experiences a PTSD-related flashback. She could react to it just like any other person, and enter into a state of hyperventilation and paranoia. Or she could revert to her, as you put it, 'altered genetic state.' Take your pick."

Danvers took another sip of her coffee, unhappy with the lack of certainty. No new discoveries here. Maybe she'd have better luck with Conners. Turning to face the one-armed scientist, Danvers asked if there was any kind of information he could pass on to the taskforce.

"Well," Conners said, now ready for the questions, "I think it's safe to say that she has a tremendous vulnerability to electricity. If you have some weapons, preferably some sort of large Taser, than I think it would be more effective than, say, a Hulkbuster suit."

Given how the caffeine from Danvers' coffee was just starting to kick in, she first thought that Conners was making a crack at her for sending in a full troop of S.H.I.E.L.D. soldiers to their deaths during the initial raid to arrest Watson. Ultimately, though, she decided to let it slide, hoping that she had just misconstrued the man's words.

"Do we have anything on her powers? Does she have increased stamina, strength, the whole works even when the suit is inactive?"

"Well, I suppose I could tell you what I told you last time, but I seem to have a knack for delving into _too _much detail for your—"

"Doctor Conners," Danvers interrupted, giving him a hard-eyed look, "this is _not _the time to try my patience. Just answer the question. Does she need to 'power-up,' or has the suit already enhanced her natural abilities?"

Conners licked his lips, clearly concerned for having ticked off his new boss. "Well, I'd say that a rudimentary physical we took of her after we—after _you_ had apprehended her indicated nothing particularly unusual in her physique. The most unusual thing is, of course, the symbiote, although that's obvious. So no, I'd say you wouldn't have to worry about her breaking through brick walls anytime soon, so long as she hasn't 'powered-up.' Just worry about the venom sacs from the suit."

"Wonderful. Thank you, Dr. Conners. And Dr. Williams, if Watson is suffering from PTSD, does that mean that she might try to return to her home, or not?"

Williams had to consider this for a moment before checking her notes. It was always tricky, trying to map a psychological profile of a super-powered criminal. No telling what the genetic engineering did to the mind. After quickly flipping through her legal pad, she looked back up at Danvers with an answer.

"Based on my current notes, it's highly unlikely that she would try to return to her old house, mostly because that was ground zero for, well, her worst traumatic incident yet. But I think it would still be a good idea to keep tabs on the place. You never know."

Danvers leaned back. "Thank you Doctor Conners and Doctor Williams. That will be all. You've both been very helpful."

In truth, what they had to say was anything but. Most of what they said indicated that Watson might be the hardest target for them to track down yet, given how little information they had on her. Sure, she may not be as deadly as some of S.H.I.E.L.D.'s other detainees, but her unpredictability concerned Danvers greatly. That and the nearly twenty-four hour head-start she was receiving.

She really hoped they'd be able to wake Sharon Carter up soon.

**Midtown High School, New York City, New York – **It was getting close to eleven-thirty in the morning, and that meant lunchtime for most of the students at Midtown High School. As one could expect, the cafeteria filled up quite quickly with freshmen, sophomores, and juniors. There was the occasional senior, but most of them were more interested in flexing their newfound freedom, choosing to ride off in their cars to the nearest fast-food place. Jessica Jones was one such senior who had that privilege, but at the moment, she had other things on her mind.

Earlier in the day, during her free period, she had headed over to the AV Room to do some online research. In the past she had to get a key from one of the two faculty supervisors of the student-run broadcast: Mr. Rooney, the technical supervisor who signed out the video cameras they needed for the broadcast, or Mr. Bradley, the faculty advisor. Given her dedication to the news broadcast (she had been with the organization for nearly three years), Jessica had finally managed to wrangle a personal key to the room from the advisors, which meant she made many a trip there to fine-tune and tweak the stories for the newscast. And right now, she had landed on something very big, something which, as she was fond of saying, would really pump up her "college transcripts."

The notes she had stumbled across in her Creative Fiction folder last night were quite a find, which was why she had stayed up way past her usual bedtime poring over each of the documents. All of them appeared to be on official stationery—federal, by the look of it—and they seemed to be lengthy and detailed notations on how "subjects" were adapting after some sort of "bonding process." Reading these might be a chore for anyone else due to their inherently banal tone, but Jessica devoured it right up. This far outshone anything else that they had reported on. More interesting than many of the attacks on the school that the newscast had covered, more unique than the random student disappearances which had seemingly plagued the sophomore class this semester. What she had found far outstripped those other stories, because this time, she felt that the club would actually be on top of the story, that they wouldn't be trying to play catch-up after the big event had subsided and everyone had lost interest. No one would lose interest in this story, since in these notes was the key to finding out who Spider-Man was.

Granted, it wasn't a complete lock, but a lot of the notes seemed to point in the right direction. Each of these "suits," or whatever they were, possessed many of the same abilities that Spider-Man allegedly had, and seeing how they managed to end up in one of her folders surely showed that she had to have received these papers from someone in the school. Perhaps the same person who was Spider-Man. Additionally, there were references to several people, a "Carl Redfern," a "Mendel Stromm," and several other people, some of whom didn't show up in the Google searches she had conducted earlier in the day. But one of the names, a name which sounded vaguely familiar to her and that had appeared on one of the documents, might have turned up a search result if she had the time to look him up.

Now that she had her lunch break, Jessica had the perfect opportunity to look up the name.

As befitting her usual routine, Jessica had stopped by her locker after her Physical Education class in order to grab her lunch and the notes she was keeping in her backpack. So deep was she in her concentration and single-mindedness that she failed to spot the person who banged up directly against the locker to her right, causing her to gasp in surprise.

"Got any plans for lunch?"

"God Raych. You freaked me out."

"Oh did I now? Sounds to me like you need a break then."

Rachael Dresinger was probably one of Jessica's closest friends. They had known each other for as long as Jessica could remember, and even though they had disparate interests, they also complemented each other nicely. Jessica was all about news, Rachael was all about literature. Jessica had short black hair; Rachael had incredibly long brown wavy hair, which stretched down to her upper back. Jessica had the piercings, Rachael had some tattoos. Jessica was the realist, and Rachael was the dreamer. There was no bad blood between them, and no secrets either. At least there were no secrets between them _before_ Jessica had found these mysterious notes.

"You think I need a break? From what exactly?"

"Please, Jess. Don't think I don't know. You're still thinking about that newscast," Rachael replied, arching her eyebrows in a knowing fashion.

"Okay, so I'm still thinking about the newscast," Jessica admitted, closing her locker door after she had grabbed her lunch. "So what? I'm the Executive—"

"—Producer of the school's television network. Don't worry, I've got it. I just think you deserve some time off. Seriously, I haven't seen you in forever."

"You've seen me plenty of times," Jessica said, hoping to peel off of Rachael in order to make it to the AV Room. "We're in Spanish together every single day."

"That's not what I meant. And you know it. Now come on," Rachael replied, tugging at her friend's arm, "you're coming with me to lunch."

"Alright, Raych. You win," Jessica uttered wearily as she walked alongside her. "Are we going out?"

Rachael let out a sigh. "Regrettably, no. My car needs gas, and I don't have enough money for food and fuel, so we'll have to make do with the entrees the cafeteria has prepared."

After the two of them had arrived in the cafeteria and found a place to sit, Rachael began to wish that she had chosen to skip lunch.

"Ugh," she grimaced, inspecting her lunch. "Fish tacos. I forgot it was Tuesday." Looking inside the hard shell, she couldn't help but wonder if they used any actual meat. "This doesn't even look like fish. It should be called Mystery Meat Tacos."

Jessica looked over at the tacos. "Looks like tuna to me."

"Well, whatever it looks like, it certainly isn't lunch. What did you bring?"

"Crab meat salad."

"Crab meat? Like, the actual crab meat?"

Jessica shrugged. "Yup. My parents told me to finish the crab meat salad, so I'm finishing the crab meat salad."

"In a sandwich? You mind if I…?"

"Not at all," Jessica replied, sliding the other half of the sandwich toward Rachael. "My Dad brought it home from a conference last Saturday, and we've been eating it since Sunday. I'm actually getting a little sick of it."

"So tell me," Rachael began, opening the sandwich to inspect the salad, "are you going to submit anything to _Impressions_?"

"I wasn't planning on it," Jessica answered, not too keen on continuing this line of conversation. _Impressions_ was the name of Midtown High School's literary magazine, and Rachael was the editor-in-chief. She had been bugging her to submit a story ever since their Creative Fiction class started.

"Really? Not even that one short story?"

"You mean the one that we're supposed to turn in this week? Yeah, I don't think it's a worthy contender for the Pulitzer."

"Oh come on, Jess. It's _Impressions_, not the _New Yorker_. I'm trying to get more submissions from other people and working on broadening the magazine's scope."

"You mean people other than the club-members? Tell you what. I'll submit my short story if you do a piece for the newscast."

"Har-har. Not gonna happen. I'm camera-shy. Just like how you're…story shy."

"Story shy? Sorry to say this, but I don't think that word exists."

"Creative License. And of course we're now talking about your beloved newscast, which I was hoping to—"

"Well, well, well. If it isn't my two favorite people in the whole world!"

Both Jessica and Rachael turned to see Mark Raxton walking up to them, clad in his usual leather jacket and cowboy boots.

"Look who it is," Rachael replied with a smirk.

"Shouldn't you be running around in a Spider-Man costume somewhere?" Jessica asked in bemusement.

Mark plopped down across from them with a good-natured grin. "Well I would if I didn't have a game tonight. Coach wants us all to be on good behavior. And to all eat here with the younglings and build some team spirit," he said, jerking his thumb back to where Flash Thompson and some other younger players were seated. "Anyways, what'd I miss in Spanish today?"

"Oh right. You skipped today, didn't you? Anyways, you didn't miss much. We listened to Santos talk about Puerto Rican culture for the test Friday," Rachael answered before looking over at Jessica. "Not that Hildy over here paid much attention."

"Hildy?" Mark asked Jessica. "Is that your middle name or something?"

Jessica, who was finding her attention drifting towards a table where Kitty Pryde was seated, blinked back to Mark's question. "Huh?"

"Is your middle name Hildy or something?" Mark asked again.

"Hildy? What kind of name is that?"

Rachael stared disbelievingly at the two of them. "Hildy? Hildy Johnson?"

No reply.

"Neither of you have seen _His Girl Friday?_ It's a classic! At the very least, Jess, I would've hoped you saw it. You're just like the character."

"And that character would be…?"

"A reporter. Just like you."

"I thought we weren't supposed to be talking about the newscast."

"You're right. I think you need a break." Rachael glanced towards Mark. "Don't you think she needs a break? Maybe something new to obsess over? Maybe something like…a boyfriend?"

Jessica shook her head good-naturedly. "A boyfriend? That's what you think I need? Are you going to try to set me up with _him_," she asked, gesturing towards Mark. "I think I'm too old for Mark."

Mark expressed mock bafflement. "Too _old_ for me? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Last time I checked," Jessica responded, prying open the lid of a yogurt, "you were more interested in sophomores."

"Sophomores? What, you mean like that Mary-Jane girl?"

"Uh-oh," Rachael interjected. "She-who-shall-not-be-named…"

"Oh really? Does Jess have a problem with her?"

"No, I _don't_ have a problem with her. I just felt…that her first news report was not solely done by herself. She probably had help. And the fact that she refused to admit it didn't help either."

"The great rivalry continues. Speaking of which, where has she been? Doesn't she usually hang out over there with—what's her name—the X-Man?"

"Kitty Pryde? I guess so. Yeah, I haven't seen her around, which is a problem, since she was supposed to shoot the basketball game tonight…"

"Yeah…" Mark replied, trailing off. "Speaking of which, I've got a concert Friday. Think you two could make it? It's only five bucks."

Jessica didn't respond right away, as she was becoming distracted again, which provided the perfect opening for Rachael.

"Oh, don't worry. We'll _both_ be there, won't we Jess?," Rachael responded, nudging Jessica.

Jessica, who was busy starring at the table where Kitty Pryde, Kenny McFarlane, and a few other sophomores were seated gave a quick "Yeah, sure," before returning to her thoughts. Aside from Kitty and Kenny, there were two other people, one of which was the blonde who randomly disappeared for a few months. The last kid was Mary-Jane's boyfriend, and as she continued to stare at the group, she remembered how they had collided in the hallway after lunch Friday, on her way to her Creative Fiction class. There had been a spill, and their papers had gotten mixed up. As a matter of fact, some of his graded assignments had popped up in her Print Journalism folder. Pulling her Journalism folder over to her, she opened it to find one science assignment from a Peter Parker inside, something she was planning to give back to him once she ran into him again.

_Parker…Parker…where have I heard that name before…?_

Then it suddenly hit her. The name "Richard Parker" had appeared on one of the documents. A memo of some sort, if she was remembering it correctly.

_No way…_

Whether or not there were any family ties between the two was something she would have to uncover later. She would also have to see if she could get anything off of his friends to confirm her suspicions, but for now, it seemed fairly clear to her.

She knew who Spider-Man was.

_Writer's Note: Thank you for the two new reviews! I'm glad people are enjoying the writing! Just a quick heads-up, this will be my last update for a bit! School's starting, so I'll be taking a hiatus! But fear not, for "The Others," shall return! As always, R&R, if the notion strikes you!_


	23. Convergence

_Writer's Note: I'm back, as promised! First of all, a shout-out to the three new reviewers, KoishNoish, Booksaboutnothing, and Nerdman3000! While school did divert my attention and priorities, I'm out for the time being, with plenty of new chapters coming your way! And kudos to Booksaboutnothing, for catching one of my major influences in shaping the outline of this story! Anyways, this chapter is more characterization and build-up, which may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I found it extremely useful, since it forced me to get back into the characters and the story. Enjoy, and, as always, read and review if the notion strikes you! _

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. - **Sarah Ryder was beginning to grow weary of these leaks. Like a dam that should be holding water, this assassination she had ordered on Redfern, their rogue scientist, should have sealed up all of the potential breaches of secrecy. Instead a new spout of water had burst forth in the manner of a Google search.

_Of all the things…_

Of course Rodgers had burst into her office just as she was in the middle of a call with the Director of the CIA. Just before she was about to tell him about their success in shutting up Redfern, Rodgers came in, rather anxious. This would have normally raised the alarm for Ryder, but she had been operating under enormous pressure for these past few days, and was eager to put the whole matter behind her, adopting a tunnel vision to screen out contradictory information. After all, what good is a covert program if it's online or in the evening news? If she was appearing more cautious, and more willing to kill, what did it matter so long as stealth and anonymity were ensured? This was perhaps why she had been selected for this position, this unique operation which was ever so slightly grazing against S.H.I.E.L.D.'s authority. The fact that she had actively worked in foreign countries before moving up in the ranks—all the way up to becoming Station Chief for Rabat—meant she had first-hand experience. Compared to many of her associates and their relative age, it was a miracle that she landed this position in the first place, given her age in comparison to the far older men in other senior-level positions. Ryder, for whatever reason, was deemed most capable for leading the most lethal CIA operation.

Not that she had let it go to her head, given how working at a clandestine organization for almost twenty or so odd years bred a certain sense of humility and discretion. Of course, this attitude of hers had slowly been eroding throughout the days after Redfern had "gone off the reservation." Being the youngest person in charge of the most cutting-edge operation was stressful, and it was difficult to earn trust, especially if something went wrong. She would inevitably be the person to absorb the blame. While she remained steadfastly obedient to the CIA for her entire career, she was slightly irked whenever she recalled her meeting with the CIA Director. After explaining Operation Cryptkeeper's recent failure in losing Redfern, she had been chastised and dressed down, all the more painful since it was the DCI, Thomas Neil, who had personally chosen her for Cryptkeeper, even fighting off alternative candidates who had been around far longer. He wanted someone younger, with more, as he put it, "fire in the belly." The fact that she had let him down was both embarrassing and lethal for her career, much like this Google search was just as dangerous to Cryptkeeper's ability to operate in the shadows.

In any case, Rodgers had managed to get her attention by scribbling a note on one of her sticky-note pads on Ryder's desk. The NSA had sent over another flag, and Ryder had to stall, no longer able to tell Neil how everything had been wrapped up neatly. Someone was looking up Cryptkeeper, and Redfern's name had appeared as well. Of course looking up both him and the name of this operation would yield no real search results. Even Google, with all of its prowess and searching capabilities, was unable to dig up any links between the man who had created each of the genetic "suits" and the CIA operation they worked under.

But Ryder was not one to leave this to chance, which was why she ordered a background trace on the specific Internet Service Provider address of the computer.

Since Internet Service Providers were in fact required to build in devices for government monitoring, they were able to locate the address relatively quickly.

"A high school?" Ryder asked in confusion. "Is that really where the signal originated from?"

Rodgers nodded. "We double-checked it, as did NSA. It's accurate."

Ryder just stared at the copy on her desk. "And this isn't—"

"A mistake? I wish. Of course, it could've just been kids messing around, and one of them hit—"

"Maybe. But I'd rather double-check. Just to be safe." See if we can isolate the computer that was used, and then obtain records. Attendance, room assignments, CCTV footage, anything. We need to figure out exactly who plugged this stuff into the computer, and if they pose a significant threat."

"Right."

"See if we can get something pulled together in the next two hours or so."

"Can do," Rodgers said, leaving Ryder's office while fighting off fatigue.

Even though it would be inherently easy to locate the culprit responsible for plugging in these keywords into Google, Rodgers still felt uncomfortable about following through on this directive. After all, they had already offed one of their own. Would Ryder hesitate before killing off a kid?

Rodgers wasn't so sure anymore.

**The Triskelion, New York City, New York – **Blackness. Then, muffled sounds. Voices were slowly percolating to the surface of Sharon Carter's consciousness. Slowly opening her eyes, she squinted at the fluorescent lighting fixtures adorning the Triskelion's medical wing. Blinking rapidly to adjust her eyes, she turned her head ever so slightly, looking at her surroundings.

She was definitely in a hospital bed, now that her mind was coming out of it, becoming more aware. She had a respirator fixed over her nose and mouth, and she initially couldn't recall how she got here or why, when one of the nurses came over to Carter's bed side. After seeing that Carter was in fact awake, she promptly headed off in the opposite direction.

Carter was still pondering how she got herself into this predicament when it hit her in the manner of an unpleasant memory.

_Oh right. Watson. _

_ Shit. _

A few moments later, the nurse returned, this time with someone she did recognize: James Woo. After a cursory check of Carter's vital signs, the nurse removed the respirator and left, drawing up a curtain to isolate her and Woo. Pulling herself up to face Woo, Carter asked:

"So what'd I miss?"

Woo smirked. "Plenty."

Sitting upright now, thanks in part to the adjustable bed, Carter began to rotate her neck, in order to remove some of the unpleasant stiffness she was feeling.

"God I'm sore. How long was I out?"

"Hmmm," Woo said, checking his wristwatch. "As of now, you've been out for around…24 hours."

Carter sighed. "Wonderful."

"Look on the bright side. At least you were only out for half the time. Normally you should still be unconscious for another 24."

"Yeah, that really makes me feel better."

"Relax. I got put on your task-force. It'll be just like the old days."

At this Carter had to smirk. "Which was only a few months ago. It wasn't a decade, Jim."

Woo shrugged. "Don't blame me for trying to cheer you up. Least I can do, given how Danvers is pissed for the head-start Watson's getting."

"So you've been read-in already."

"Barely. I was actually hoping you could provide something more thorough, given how, you know, you're awake."

Carter leaned back, head hitting the pillow. "So we don't have any leads."

"We found her prison uniform, which was in a dumpster near _Macy's_. They're analyzing the security cam footage, but that's going to take a while, as you know."

"So nothing concrete."

"Not yet."

"You know if I can get out of here yet?"

Woo considered this for a moment. "I think they'll want to do a final check-up on you, make sure you're all clear before sending you out again. But I'm only guessing."

"I figured that."

"I'm no doctor."

"Well," Carter said, adjusting herself to face Woo once more, "since I haven't been cleared to leave yet, I guess I'll just help you get up to speed."

"Great," Woo said, pulling out a notepad. "I'm all ears."

**Queens, New York – **Even though Peter Parker was walking home, he might as well have been floating, given his current state of mind.

Today was a good day, all things considered, especially since that chemistry test he had been cramming for at the last minute resulted in yet another perfect score to add to his academic standing. Despite his costumed duties frequently interfering with his study schedule, he nevertheless managed to pull it off, much to Gwen Stacy's amusement.

"You worry way too much, dude. No way you weren't gonna get an A."

"Yeah, well, you can never be too careful, you know?"

"Yeah, sure. Speaking of careful, I'm not sure Aunt May's going to want to see my score."

"What are you going to do," Peter asked, grinning. "Bury it in the yard?"

"Nah. I'd figure I'd just hide in the recycling. You know, sneak it out with the rest of the trash."

Peter chuckled. "Good luck with that. Aunt May's got a nose for that sort of—"

Peter trailed off as he watched Gwen lose eye contact with him, her attention moving to something else.

"What're you looking at…?" Peter asked, head turning to look in the same direction as Gwen's.

"Hey Peter."

The sound of that voice focused his attention to someone standing under the shade of a tree, partially obscured by the trunk.

"Mary?"

After her name was called, she emerged slowly and cautiously out of cover, walking with purpose but also with trepidation, eyes flicking back and forth, incessantly searching.

As she approached Peter, he regarded her with a strange mixture of concern and bafflement. There was definitely something different about her, from her clothing to her body language. She seemed more cautious and reserved, moving in a very direct and deliberate manner, eyes alert, constantly searching, never resting on one object or item for too long. But of course what was exceptionally baffling was seeing her outside, away from the Triskelion. That's what made Peter the most uneasy.

"Mary, what are you doing—?"

"I need to know if you have some documents. Files from Urich. The reporter."

"Files?" Gwen asked. "Peter, what's going on?"

"I don't know. MJ…what are you doing here?"

"That's not important. I need to know where those documents are."

"I don't—"

"You do know. You picked them up from Urich after I...after he was hit."

"Peter—" Gwen interjected.

"Hold on, Gwen," Peter said, before turning back to MJ. "MJ, listen—"

But MJ wasn't listening, or looking at Peter. Her eyes were looking past him.

"What're you looking at—" Peter asked, before hearing his spider-sense buzz.

_Aw great. What now? _

He turned around to look behind him, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, just one black Lincoln Town Car parked on the other side of the curb. Figuring it was nothing, he turned back to MJ.

"Look Mary…"

But MJ still wasn't listening. Instead, she grabbed Peter's arm and began pulling him in the opposite direction of the car.

"We need to move."

"Uh, why? There's no one here. And I want to know why you're not with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Yeah, MJ," Gwen chimed in. What's up with that?"

"Later," MJ said. "Right now I just want to keep moving away from that town car."

"No," Peter said, pulling his arm away from MJ's grip. "Right now! I want to know why you're here right now! You're supposed to be with S.H.I.E.L.D. Why aren't you?"

MJ was still staring at the town car. "Look Peter, I just need one thing. Those documents you got from Urich. Where are they?"

"I don't have them."

"You don't? Well where are they?"

"MJ. What's going on?"

"Where are they, Peter?"

"I don't know! I had them, but then I lost them before I visited you. At the Triskelion. Where you _should_ be. Why are you out here?"

"How did you lose them?"

"If I knew that, they wouldn't be lost. Now answer my question."

"Only if we can move."

Peter turned back to the town car. His spider-sense was still buzzing, but he still couldn't find a cause for concern. It couldn't have been the car. It wasn't moving. Peter assumed that his spider-sense was buzzing at MJ, possibly due to the symbiote inside her. After all, it was a distant genetic copy of his father's suit. But MJ was still focused on that car. He sighed. "Alright, MJ. Fine. Let's go."

The three of them walked around the corner, with MJ outpacing both Gwen and Peter, constantly looking behind her.

"Peter," Gwen whispered. "You know what's going on?"

"I wish."

"I thought you were saying she was with S.H.I.E.L.D."

"She should be."

"So what? Did she, like, break out?"

"I don't know," Peter said, hoping against hope that Gwen's scenario wasn't true.

After rounding the corner and walking down the street before turning yet again, MJ stopped behind a tree, looking behind her and her two friends one last time.

Peter stopped, as did Gwen. "Now do you think you could—?"

"Shhh," MJ said, hushing Peter while doing one last cursory search. "Okay, I think we're good for now."

"Great. So maybe you can tell me why you're acting all—"

"Covert."

"Thanks, Gwen."

MJ sighed. "Look, Peter. Those documents you found? Someone wants them. Bad. They already killed someone involved with creating…creating whatever it is that's inside of me. I don't know who they are, but I know you had the papers last, and you might be in danger because of it."

Peter wanted to dismiss what MJ was suggesting, but suddenly she was making too much sense. The idea that there was some kind of conspiracy going on sounded preposterous, but he himself had looked at the documents and had been with Urich, which meant that it wasn't _completely_ ridiculous, unfortunately.

"That's why I need those documents. I want to—no; I _need_ to make sure that you're safe. That Gwen's safe. And your Aunt May, too. I just…I just don't want anything to happen to you guys," MJ said, a note of fear rising in her voice.

"Mary, I am _more_ than capable of handling whatever comes my way. What I get worried about is you—"

"You shouldn't be. Now are you _sure_ you don't know where you lost those documents?"

Peter sighed, trying to think. Of course it was relatively impossible to remember, given how MJ still hadn't answered his question on why exactly she was standing next to him in Queens, instead of in the Triskelion where she should've been.

"If I remember correctly, I had them before lunch on the day I visited you at the Triskelion. But then I couldn't find them later that night. I don't think I brought them when I visited you, but I can't recall for certain…"

"Did you have them in your backpack?" MJ asked.

"Yeah."

"Well you didn't bring your backpack, so they must be at your house."

"Except they weren't. I checked after I got dropped off. They weren't in my room."

MJ sighed in frustration. "So you don't have any idea where they are."

"Look," Peter replied. "I had them before lunch, then I lost them."

Suddenly, it clicked.

"Wait. I was in the library that day, trying to find information to help you. But I was late for class, so I bumped into someone on my way out. Our papers got mixed up."

MJ was riveted now. "Who?"

Peter couldn't immediately remember a name. "I don't know. She had a lot of piercings on her face…"

"Sweet," Gwen added.

MJ leaned in closer, somewhat incredulous. "Jessica Jones?"

"I think so. You pointed her out to me before, if I remember correctly."

MJ sighed. She had hit a dead end. She began to walk away from Peter and Gwen before Peter intercepted her.

"MJ, wait. You still haven't answered _my_ question."

But MJ didn't answer. Instead, she was looking behind Peter once more, with apprehension on her face. Immediately, she spun away from him and began walking briskly in the opposite direction. Peter looked behind him as well, seeing a black town car. Whether or not it was the same one as before made no difference to him. He turned back to face MJ, who was gone. Frustrated at having lost her, he turned to Gwen.

"Where did she—"

"Booked it," Gwen said, jerking her thumb in the opposite direction. "Just started running and never looked back."

"Man…"

"Are you gonna go after her? She couldn't have gotten far…"

"Yeah," Peter said, wishing that MJ had been more straightforward with him and less elliptical. But he was unable to pursue her immediately, since the town car that MJ was so suspicious of stopped, with at least one person stepping out and walking over to the two of them, pulling out an ID badge.

While Peter and Gwen were being delayed, MJ had since managed to skip through several neighborhood lawns before eventually stopping at one house which had a car parked outside. Moving quickly, she took out a small pick she had purchased before leaving the city to get the car door open before she began to hotwire the vehicle. Ordinarily, this was something she would've had no experience with, were it not for the special skills she had become imbued with thanks to the "suit."

What was on MJ's mind, however, was the fact that Jessica Jones now had the documents. That only made things worse, since at least with Peter, you could assume that he would be okay since he had the powers which made him Spider-Man. Jessica had nothing to fall back on, so the fact that she might end up becoming the new target for whoever was orchestrating these murders only exacerbated the anxiety she was already feeling. And then there was that town car that had been following them, just as she had feared.

_**I told you not to return to our home.**_

_My__ home. It was never yours. You stole it from __me_, MJ thought, as the car's engine roared to life.

_**If you had been more rational—**_

___Stop it! Just…stop! Shut up, and stop lecturing me! We're going—__I'm__ going now. It's fine. _

In reality, it was hardly fine, and MJ didn't want to visit her old home at all. She had actually arrived in Queens early, before Peter and Gwen had gotten out of school. She had done a cursory check to make sure no one had staked out the area she would meet them at, and had then taken to wandering. She had become wrapped up in her own thoughts and wasn't paying attention to where she had been walking. Only when she saw the yellow police tape from a distance did she stop, realizing that she had instinctually taken the same route as the one she took every day after school. What set this walk apart from prior ones was the fact that she couldn't get any closer to her house. It almost seemed as if there was some kind of emotional force-field which kept her from approaching it any closer. She didn't want to relive the past. Instead, she turned away, feeling a running mix of emotions flowing through her body. Nausea, guilt, sadness, and more all flooded her at once, bringing tears to her eyes which she hastily brushed away. Even though she claimed that everything was fine, MJ was anything _but_ fine after the visit, and of course what made it worse was the fact that someone, probably S.H.I.E.L.D., had been staking out her old home, with the black car slowly trailing behind her as she made her way back to the original rendezvous point. But she couldn't think about that anymore. It hurt too much.

She had to find Jessica. And fast.

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. – **Just as she had predicted, finding out who had been looking for information on Redfern and Operation Cryptkeeper didn't take too long, with the actual trace only taking up to two hours.

Initially, two computers popped up with the search terms, but they were quickly able to narrow it down to one, since whoever had initiated the search was back at it. One photograph later, and they had a visual ID.

"So do we have a name?" Ryder asked, looking at the photos on her desk.

While the photos were taken from across the street, she could still make out a fair amount of detail, thanks in large part to the telephoto lens the agent had attached to the camera before snapping the pictures. It was definitely, a girl, about eighteen, if Ryder was guessing accurately enough. She actually looked about as old as her niece, albeit with a vastly different look.

"Not yet," Rodgers replied. "We're still working on that."

"We have a tail on her?"

"The agent who took the photo has been ordered to stay with her until further notice."

Ryder looked through the other photos. She was definitely quite the character, with all of those piercings decorating her face. Some kind of hacker-type, maybe?

"How do you think she found out about the operation?"

"Can't tell at this point. We called the Octagon an hour ago to see if they had anything missing. We already know Redfern stole digital files, but they're checking hard copies now. We should know in the next ten minutes or so."

Ryder nodded. "Alright then. Let's keep up the surveillance on her, and keep digging around to see if we can get an ID. Are there any other potential subjects?"

Rodgers considered this for a moment. "No, not yet. She's our best lead by far. The only other possibility might be a Peter Parker, who was with Urich back when Redfern made the exchange. But I'd say we're better off not touching him."

"Because…?"

"To put it simply, Peter Parker is Spider-Man. We used his DNA earlier when we tried making some Super-Soldiers of our own."

"So we don't want to touch him because of S.H.I.E.L.D."

"Exactly."

"Do we still have any assets in the area?"

Rodgers stiffened at the question. "Um, yes. Riot and Lasher are still in the area, and Scream just got in. Ripper got hit by a layover California, unfortunately. You aren't seriously considering—"

"Oh no," Ryder replied. "Just keeping all my options on the table."

"Right. I just don't think that—"

"Listen Becky," Ryder said, turning to face her. "I understand your concerns, and appreciate them. However, if I need any advice, I will ask you for it. Is that clear?"

Rodgers licked her lips. "Yes."

"Thank you," Ryder said, before turning back to the photos. "That'll be all. Let me know when you find intel on the subject."

"Yes ma'am," Rodgers said, backing out of the door before gently closing it.

Whatever information they turned up, Rodgers hoped that it wouldn't involve an asset being deployed.


	24. Assassination Attempt

_Writer's Note: Oof! At a whopping 25 pages, this may mark the longest installment to "The Others" yet! In retrospect, the first half of this chapter could have been wedged into the prior chapter, or in a separate chapter, but I guess that's something I'll have to do for future installments. Anyway, before I forget, special thanks to Nerdman3000 and OMAC001 for the kind words and comments. I'm always appreciative of readers who frequent the review section! As always, R&R if you're interested, and I'll see you on the flipside! _

**Midtown High School, New York City, New York – **Clayton Jones changed stations on his car radio yet again, trying in vain to find something interesting to listen to. The hosts of this particular channel were filling the airwaves with inane chatter, meaning that he needed to find something else. So far, the only thing he was able to locate was pop music, which was probably the _last_ thing he wanted to listen to.

Jones was involved in yet another Cryptkeeper mission. He had been part of both teams which had tried to bring in Redfern, with the latter group being far more successful than the former, for whatever reason. _Probably because the higher-ups finally got their act together_, he mused, staring through his camera viewfinder for the sixth time.

Now, however, he was back in the duller realm of spycraft: that of the stakeout. For whatever reason, he had been tasked with taking photos of this kid in high school. Ordinarily, Jones wouldn't have cared, but this was a _student_. In high school. As a result, Jones was feeling exceptionally pervy, sitting in a car taking photos of a minor.

And, of course, there was nothing to listen to on the radio.

So far, though, there was nothing very interesting going on with the subject. She was just sitting in the same room, in front of a computer typing away and making notes. Nothing that would immediately raise an alarm with him, although he knew that's how it always started. Something innocuous and harmless one moment becomes exceedingly dangerous the next. For all he knew, this kid was some kind of hacker wunderkind, stealing all sorts of secrets to relay to others. Whatever she was doing didn't matter much to Jones, since that wasn't in his purview. Better to let his superiors worry about it. For now, his only role was to monitor the subject, and notify—

Just then, Jones caught the girl getting up from the computer and stretching. After that, she picked up her notes, turned off the lights, and closed the door. Taking his hand off the car radio, he switched to his personal radio.

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. – **Becky Rodgers was currently enmeshed in Cryptkeeper's bullpen with the other technicians, compiling as much information as she could on their current target: Jessica Jones.

Initially, Rodgers had a feeling they would have to do a lot of digging in order to find a name to attach to her face. Fortunately, she had opened up her G-mail account while sitting on the computer Cryptkeeper was monitoring, which gave them access to her entire life. She was an inquisitive kid—unfortunately—and seemed to run the school's "newscast," judging by the number of e-mails she had sent out with that specific subject line. A cursory search had brought up a (modest) website, which actually featured plenty of background on the newscast. In the past, it looked as if it just read off school announcements daily, but this kid had evidently turned it into an actual newsgathering body.

More digging had unearthed additional information, including phone logs and an address. She was a high school senior, age 18. Naturally she had a number of friends, and had already filled out a number of applications for numerous colleges, including NYU's Journalism Institute. _Looks like you'll be able to afford them too,_ Rodgers mused, after pulling up information on her parents. Her dad was a lawyer for a pretty expensive firm, and her mother was a freelance web developer. All three of them lived in Forest Hills Gardens, Queens, which was hardly a cheap area to live in.

After Rodgers had completed the relatively well-rounded dossier on Jones, she was printing it off when one of the technicians, namely Danielle, approached her.

"Mobile One just reported movement by the subject. She left the room and he can't get a visual on her anymore. Should we send him in—?"

"To a high school? Yeah, I don't think that would go over too well with the school officials. Can we pull up a GPS trace on her cell phone?"

"As long as it's on."

"Then let's do that. In the meantime, I've got to go brief Ryder. Be back in ten."

**Midtown High School, New York City, New York – **As Rodgers headed off to brief Ryder, MJ was hurtling towards the high school as fast as she could, hoping that this time, she wouldn't be late in stopping another potential assassination. It was currently four-thirty in the afternoon, which meant that the school would practically be empty. This would make it easier for MJ to move around, but it also flooded her with concern, since if Jessica wasn't there, she'd be at a dead end. Given all the things on her mind, MJ barely noticed the fact that she was exceptionally good at driving a car, which was surprising since she didn't even have a learner's permit.

In any case, MJ soon pulled into the high school's parking lot and found a suitable space near an exit door. Shadows where thrown up everywhere from the setting sun, and what wasn't hidden in the darkness was baking in golden hues. Moving quickly, MJ shut off the car, locked it, and walked briskly over to the side entrance. One of the other reasons why she had elected for taking this side route instead of the main entrance was because of the extensive remodeling following the numerous attacks on the high school. In response to parental concerns regarding the safety of their children, school officials had taken to adding in new fire doors, security cameras, fire alarms, changing all of the locks, and adding a check-in desk for visitors at the main entrance. While MJ was still a student, she felt as if it would be better to be safe than sorry, not wanting to end up on any more security cameras.

_Oh, come on! _MJ thought, as she tried jerking the side entrance door open. It was locked, as she should've expected. _Guess I'll have to see how useful __you__ are,_ she thought, bending down and, after looking around to make sure no one was coming, jiggling her pick through the lock. Fortunately, the lock gave way rather quickly, and MJ was able to quickly dart inside before closing the door behind her. Fortunately, there were no other deterrents, such as an electronic alarm, which gave MJ the chance to move on. She quickly headed straight towards the room which housed the school's newscast equipment and their weekly meetings, where she hoped to find Jessica.

Even though it was possible for MJ to utilize the symbiote in order to pick the lock, she still shied away from it. One of the main reasons for this was because MJ was naturally still squeamish with the "suit," and wanted to do everything in her power to contain it. Granted, she would've never thought about picking up a small lock pick were it not for the creature's meddling in her brain, but it still brought a small measure of comfort and relief to MJ, in addition to the illusion of control. The symbiote was of a similar mindset, willing to give MJ a certain amount of latitude so long as the end result was the same.

In any case, MJ's worst suspicions were confirmed, since when she got over to the newscast room, the door was locked and the lights were off.

_Damn it! Now how am I going to find her!?_ MJ thought, looking left and right down the hallway, hoping that Jessica would appear around a corner. But of course she didn't. It was nearly five o'clock, which meant that there was no way she'd be here. MJ was beginning to feel exceptionally nervous, sweating out of anxiety. If she couldn't find Jessica, then there's no way she'd be able to get those documents back! And what made it worse was how Jessica might end up becoming another victim, killed before MJ or anyone else could intervene.

_Okay. Let's think this through. She __has__ to still be here! She's a workaholic with the newscast…no way she left any earlier_, MJ thought, desperately wishing that she knew more about Jessica, such as where her locker was. At least then she could check it, and see if she was just collecting her stuff before leaving school.

Suddenly, MJ snapped her fingers. _Wait a minute. She's a senior, so she might have a car… _MJ couldn't recall any real incidents where Jessica mentioned having a vehicle, but at this point, she was willing to check, sprinting back to the exit door she had just entered through a few moments ago.

**Operation Cryptkeeper Headquarters, Washington D.C. - **As MJ was making her way towards the parking lot, Ryder had been receiving a quick briefing on the target she was sharing mutually with Mary-Jane: Jessica Jones. While she seemed to be a significantly lower risk than Redfern, the tenacity of this girl still allowed for some feelings of unease.

This would have been bad enough, except what compounded the concerns was the fact that they had just received a call from the Octagon, with plenty of bad news.

"How many papers did they say were missing?" Ryder asked, her hands cradling her head, afraid to know the answer.

Rodgers swallowed. "Around twenty pages or so."

"And they were fairly important, I imagine?"

"Unfortunately, yes. The missing files largely corresponded to inter-office memos outlining the operation, along with authorization, and journals on the individual assets."

"Daily journals?"

"Yes."

"Covering what?"

"The, uh…the 'conditioning procedures' for each individual asset, both before and after their bonding to one of the suits."

Ryder paused for a brief moment, turning to look out the window.

"Jesus Christ. That's all of it, right?"

"Uh, no, unfortunately not," Rodgers said, taking a seat across from Ryder. "Redfern also apparently confiscated the papers outlining the capabilities of each of the suits, with the contact information for these offices and Octagon on almost every individual document."

"Jesus."

"Printed on official federal stationery."

"Fuck. That's enough to convict us in court."

Rodgers didn't reply right away. There was no need. A long and uncomfortable silence opened up between the two of them, each contemplating the dire straits they currently found themselves in. Finally, after what seemed to be an eternity, Ryder spoke up.

"Right. So let's face facts. We've got an eighteen-year-old who somehow managed to stumble upon classified federal documents."

"Correct."

"And we have her name?

"Yes."

"Her address?"

"Yes."

"Family, friends, history, all that?"

"That's all of it."

Ryder swiveled back around to face Rodgers from across her desk. "So…given everything we know of her, and given what we know she's in possession of, I recommend using one of the assets we currently have in New York to remove her from the equation, before having a grab team do a sneak-and-peek at her parents' house in order to retrieve the missing files."

Rodgers was stunned. "You're talking about killing a child."

"She's eighteen. That makes her an adult in the eyes of the federal government."

"But even then—"

"Becky," Ryder said flatly, "Face the facts. If we don't take her out, we lose our jobs, and if we're lucky, that's it. If we're not lucky on the other hand, then we end up losing our jobs, facing a Congressional committee, the press, a criminal trial, and jail time, in all likelihood."

"I'm aware of the stakes," Rodgers said defensively. "But even then it seems like we should be preserving some kind of restraint! If we kill her, what's to stop us from killing a fifteen-year-old…or a—a baby? There has to be some other—"

"What do you think I am, Becky? A monster? You think I'm indifferent, or immune to feeling any kind of remorse? Trust me; this is by no means an easy decision to make. I have a niece that's the same age as the subject. She's my sister's kid. She'll be going to college soon. The fact that I have to make a decision like this, something that practically amounts to murdering my own relative, sickens me. It's not something I want to do, but it's something that has to be done. Don't take the high road with me, and don't assume this isn't painful for me. We've been working on this operation for a long time now, so it's a little late to be having a 'crisis-of-conscience.' I can replace you if I need to, but given how long we've worked together, I'd like to think it won't be necessary. You think you can stick with me on this?"

Rodgers, feeling rather startled and on edge following Ryder's outburst, didn't want to stick around the office any longer.

"Yes ma'am."

Ryder took a deep breath, feeling a little better, now that she had cleared the air. "Thank you. Now, which asset is closest to the subject's home address?"

"Lasher."

"Alright then. Send him out there with orders to eliminate the subject and have a Grab Team follow him to do a sweep of the house afterwards."

Rodgers didn't respond.

"Understand?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Thank you. That'll be all."

**Midtown High School, New York City, New York – **As Jessica Jones was heading towards her car, she couldn't help but giddily reflect on the information she had uncovered. So far, she hadn't found anything corresponding to the "Redfern," or "Mendel Stromm" mentioned in each of the documents, although she had discovered some information on "Richard Parker." Nothing exceptional, but enough for Jessica's needs. He had been a scientist apparently, who had been involved with a "Trask Industries," one of those enormous, generic conglomerates. Apparently both of the Parkers had been killed in some kind of plane crash. The obituary she had read stated how they were "succeeded by Ben and May Parker," as well as a "Peter Parker." Naturally, this only increased Jessica's excitement, since it appeared to line up _very_ closely to Peter Parker's current familial situation. All that was left to do was to get some interviews with his friends, double-check her sources, and—

"Jessica! Wait up!"

_What the…_Jessica thought, turning at the sound of that familiar voice. _MJ?_

Sure enough, there was Mary-Jane Watson, sprinting towards her with a mix of relief and concern on her face. Jessica was rather surprised to see her at this hour, especially since she had been missing for the past few days. Immediately she wondered if she had been intentionally skipping school, since if she was sick, she wouldn't be running towards her, Jessica concluded as MJ finally managed to reach her parking spot.

"We need to talk."

"Tell me about it," Jessica said, crossing her arms and adopting an authoritarian tone. She didn't care so much if MJ was skipping classes. After all, Mark did it all the time, and she had even taken at least one or two "senior skip days," as they were called. What irked her was the fact that MJ wasn't holding up her end of the newscast segments, forcing Timmy to do two stories, something which she didn't really like, since he had a hard enough time focusing on one segment. "Next time you decide to skip school, do you think you could—I don't know—give me a little heads-up before-hand? I've now got a programming hole that was _supposed_ to be filled by tonight's basketball game, which you were supposed to cover—"

"The newscast doesn't matter," MJ said, looking around the parking lot.

"Doesn't _matter_? Then why'd you join? I thought that the 'brilliant' fifteen-year-old who could assemble an entire news package by herself _wanted_—"

"Jessica," MJ said with an unusual intensity, "You picked up some documents by accident. They'd probably look like they're from some kind of government agency. I need them."

At this, Jessica was caught off-guard. _How the hell does she know?_

"Do you have them on you?" MJ asked, nodding to Jessica's backpack. "Or are they somewhere nearby?"

"I…don't know—"

"Jessica. Don't lie to me. I know you have them."

Normally, Jessica might've brushed off MJ before getting into her car and driving off, especially since she had been missing for several days and Jessica wasn't in the mood to be dealing with her. However, there was something about the look in her eyes that suggested how serious of a transgression it was to hold onto these papers.

"They're at my house," Jessica said cautiously, still not certain where MJ was going with this. "Why do you need them?"

"To protect _you_."

"From…?"

MJ sighed, looking around. "I don't know yet. But if I can get those papers from you, then I'll be able to figure that part out."

Jessica was still trying to get a read on MJ's motives. "Think you can tell me what's going on?"

MJ sighed. "I'll fill you in when we get to your house."

After mulling it over for a bit, Jessica decided to go along with it. "Fine," she said, turning to her car and getting into the driver's seat. "Get in."

**Forest Hills Gardens, Queens, New York – **The drive to Jessica's house was a bit awkward, although that was to be expected. For MJ, her life had already gone through so many permutations that she could hardly think about making small talk with Jessica. If that weren't enough, there was already some latent hostility between the two, with MJ concerned about Jessica's agenda to expose Spider-Man's identity, and Jessica skeptical of MJ's skills. So even if there were no mortal concerns, and even if MJ was not plagued by a symbiotic parasite which had re-wired her mind, things would still be at a remove between the two of them.

As the car pulled into the driveway of her house, Jessica finally broke the silence.

"So, uh…were you sick?"

MJ, who had been busy looking out the rearview mirror for any cars tailing them, turned back to Jessica. "Oh, um…yeah. I guess you could call it that."

"Well," Jessica said, turning off her car's ignition and pulling out the key, "Here we are. I'll run inside and get the papers. You can come in if you want."

Jessica opened up the car door and got out, closing it behind her. MJ did the same, before pausing to look at Jessica's house.

_Wow._

Unlike the neighborhood she had lived in with Peter and Gwen, Jessica seemed to dwell in very sumptuous surroundings. Her house was far bigger than MJ's, and was surrounded by perfectly manicured hedges, with spacious sidewalks and lawns. All of the houses were fairly well spread-out, with plenty of room in-between. But MJ wasn't able to remain enraptured for long.

_**Focus.**_

___On __what__? I found the documents that you wanted so badly, and she's fine. Peter's fine. Nothing's going to happen. _

_**When the subject was driving in, there was a car. Six o'clock, on Burns Street. Gray. License plate number NSV 8321. **_

_So what? It didn't follow us. You're just being paranoid. _

_**Hardly. This is a residential area. Cars don't park on the sidewalk. It is more feasible that they park in the driveway, even if they are friends or relatives of the homeowner. **_

___Listen. This is stupid. Nothing went wrong, and I found Jessica. She's alive, and she has the documents. I just want to…stand here for a little longer. I need this. _

_**The subject may need us. Go inside. **_

MJ didn't respond. She was just going to stay out here for a few minutes longer, and see if the creature could calm down. MJ had been on edge for the past few hours, and appreciated this moment of solitude (provided her "other" would shut up). She would go in eventually, and deal with whatever information the papers had. But not yet.

As MJ stood outside taking in the fresh air, Jessica was in the kitchen, sitting at the family's new stainless steel island, munching on an apple. MJ may have wanted the documents, but as far as she was concerned, the sophomore standing outside would get them when Jessica was good and ready. She had in fact gone straight up to her room after entering the house in order to retrieve them, but soon realized how stupid this was. MJ may have been issuing grave statements over at Midtown, but Jessica was beginning to wise up. She had seen MJ look rather concerned before, when Jessica first announced that the newscast would cover all things Spider-Man, following news coverage of a bizarre robbery where the getaway car had no driver. Initially, Jessica had assumed MJ was looking worried for other reasons, but now she had a feeling that MJ knew Spider-Man somehow, and was trying to protect his identity.

_Sorry MJ, but I think you're going to be a little late on this one_, Jessica thought, studying the documents once again as she took another bite from her apple. She had grabbed her notebook which had the notations she had made when she was back at Midtown on the newscast computer, and things were rapidly beginning to coalesce. Evidently, Peter Parker's father had been involved in some serious bioengineering work, having designed the prototype to these new suits. Aside from that, there were also two separate phone numbers. One for a Washington D.C. office, and the other for a New Jersey office. Ultimately, Jessica knew that, even though she was planning to hand the documents over to MJ (with the hope of getting more information out of her), copies of these files should be made.

Jessica finished her apple, walking over to the trashcan next to the patio door and throwing away the core. She then began to collect the papers when her peripheral vision caught something. Slowly, she looked over to the dining room entrance, where she saw a man rounding the corner, holding a gun in a manner suggesting he knew how to use it. He looked right up into Jessica's eyes, with no change of expression on his face.

Jessica froze for a split-second, not sure what to do, still processing this intruder that had entered her house, brandishing a firearm. Her survival instincts kicked in pretty quickly though, and she grabbed the papers in a panic, hoping she could make it out the front door before he could catch up. Instead she heard a muffled noise, almost as if a modicum of air had escaped from a compressed chamber, before feeling something drill into her left shoulder, spinning her around as she hit the floor, papers fluttering up into the air and scattering.

After she had hit the floor, Jessica rolled over, hoping to get into a good position to sprint towards the exit. Instead, she felt an intense pain as she rolled over onto her left arm, forcing her to return to her original position on her back. Looking over at her shoulder, she saw blood, which she numbly registered as her own. _He shot me_, she thought blankly.

But Jessica didn't have too much time to think, because this assassin was now walking pointedly towards her, weapon aimed directly at her. Jessica now began to push backward as quickly as she could, forgetting that she had a wounded shoulder, resulting in her collapsing before she made much distance. This forced Jessica to use her right hand to staunch the wound, meaning that only her legs were giving her enough traction to keep this lethal figure at a distance.

Unfortunately, Jessica's half-crawl only got her so far, before she hit a corner between the kitchen desk and the family room doorway.

The assassin raised his gun, aiming for Jessica's head.

_Nononono_, Jessica thought, feeling tears running down her face. She closed her eyes in terror, not wanting to see him fire.

The man fired off a shot, and Jessica flinched. But the bullet never found its mark. Right before the intruder was about to fire, Jessica had heard the sound of someone else coming towards the kitchen, colliding into something else. Jessica dared to open one of her eyes, squinting to see Mary-Jane Watson struggling against the assassin, pushing the gun away from Jessica. She heard another bullet emerge from the gun with a soft _Pthew_, and she shut both of her eyes again, curling up into a ball in the hopes of diminishing her profile.

MJ, in the meantime, was still struggling against this intruder. She had naturally arrived just in time to hear the first bullet hit Jessica, and had then sprinted down the hallway, bursting into the kitchen and colliding into the man just before he had fired again. The second bullet had hit the doorway that led into the family room, and the third had barely missed Jessica, burrowing into a drawer just a few inches above her head. Not that MJ was paying attention, since her sole focus was on the gun, and getting it out of his hands.

_Yes!_ MJ thought, delivering one more push to the weapon, which left his hands before sliding across the floor, resting near the trashcan. Unfortunately, she was still focused on the gun, which meant she wasn't watching the interloper's arms.

"Ugh!" MJ said, as the man's right elbow connected with her left cheek, feeling a second blow before a burst of pain flared up. MJ then lost her footing, stumbling into the corner of the kitchen island, which knocked the wind right out of her. Unfortunately, she didn't have enough time to recover, because he was on her again, delivering a swift kick to her left knee, which brought her to the ground very quickly.

Looking over, she saw him go for his gun again, bringing a quick flash of realization to her mind, which was now largely operating on instinct. _No!_ MJ thought, pushing herself upright again before plowing into him, pinning him against the patio door.

If his balance hadn't been off from trying to pick up his gun, chances are MJ's gambit wouldn't have worked, given his size and physicality. But the victory was short-lived, with the assassin bringing up his knee into MJ's chest, trying to dislodge her. Despite the repeated blows to her abdomen, MJ held on, returning in kind by slamming him against the patio doors again and again. Unfortunately, his resilience was as durable as MJ's, with the man planting his right foot against the door and using it as leverage to halt MJ's pushing. Now that he had a brace, the assassin used MJ's momentum against her, grabbing her left arm and turning her around, giving her another push towards the kitchen island.

MJ collided with the side of the island, narrowly missing the corner, but she was still off-balance. MJ bounced off of the island and spun around again, stumbling before stopping at the counter on the far end of the kitchen. Looking quickly at her surroundings, MJ grabbed a chef's knife from the knife block, angling the blade downward to maintain better control before spinning around, bracing for what might happen next.

Fortunately, the interloper had not picked up his gun to kill Jessica, but was instead advancing towards MJ, realizing that he would have to deal with her before he could take out his initial target. MJ's new weapon, however, gave him pause, as he backed up a few steps before grabbing a kitchen towel.

Both fighters eyed each other warily for a few seconds, allowing themselves a few moments to collect their thoughts and catch their breath. MJ did not want to engage him any more than was necessary, only interested in keeping herself and Jessica safe. _Okay, let's see who we're dealing with here,_ MJ thought, sizing up her opponent. He was taller than her, but only slightly, with a compact frame which suggested a very powerful musculature. He looked Indian or Middle Eastern. Maybe Latin American. MJ couldn't be certain. He had a military buzz-cut, and was wearing generic clothing; a pea-green jacket with a light-gray hood, and beige pants. _Probably has something to do with those damn papers Jessica grabbed,_ MJ thought, stealing a glance over at Jessica. She didn't see Jessica completely, but could make out one of her shoes and a blood trail, which disappeared underneath the desk. _Wonder if he talks_—

As MJ turned to look over at Jessica, the assassin had taken advantage of her break in concentration in order to rush towards her, towel drawn tautly. MJ backpedaled quickly, jabbing her knife in the assassin's direction. Unfortunately, he anticipated her moves, using his towel to intercept her knife. MJ thrust the knife towards him again, but he stopped it once more, wrapping it around her wrist and continuing his forward momentum, pushing MJ into the counter, hard.

MJ let out a silent gasp as her mind reeled in pain. _Agh!_ She thought as the intruder smashed her knife-wielding hand into the side of a wall-mounted microwave once, then twice, causing her to drop the weapon. She then felt the towel loosen from her wrist and wrap around her neck, with the man spinning around and sweeping MJ's legs. She instantly felt the towel tighten around her throat, cutting off her breathing.

Even though MJ tried to reach up in order to dislodge the man's grip, he quickly grabbed her arm and pushed it back down, tightening his hold on the towel. MJ began to let out gagging sounds, desperate to get some air into her lungs. This fight was exhausting, and she could barely think straight, much less breathe. Now that she was beginning to fade, arms drooping to her side, a solitary thought entered her mind.

_He's going to kill you._

MJ tried to rise up in order to loosen the makeshift noose, but he dropped her quickly, through a swift kick to the back of her knee. She then tried once more to pull the towel away from her throat, but it was no use. She was not in an optimal position to escape, and her energy was fading fast, arms dropping back her side. MJ was also beginning to feel a rising sensation of terror, realizing that she might in fact die in this kitchen.

_No—please…I can't…_

Suddenly, MJ felt as if her right hand had been dipped into a bucket of cold water. Looking over, she saw that her hand had taken the shape of her "other," with her fingers becoming enveloped by the strange parasitic purple-black substance. It was spreading up to her elbow.

MJ knew what she had to do.

Even though she felt as though she was about to slip away, MJ pooled the last bit of resolve she had and reached backwards with her symbiote hand, claws digging into his right shin. The man shouted out in pain and dropped his grip on the towel, collapsing in shock, half-kneeling to see what the damage was. MJ, in the meantime, had dislodged her claw-hand, pitching forward and gasping for air.

MJ was still coughing and gasping as she looked behind her, worried that he was advancing on her. But he wasn't at the moment, using the towel as a tourniquet, tying it around the fresh wound on his leg.

_The gun!_ MJ suddenly realized, knowing that she was only a few feet away from it. She immediately pushed herself up from the floor and stumbled towards it, still recovering from the strangulation attempt.

Her right hand was still a claw, but she still lunged for the weapon, hoping that she could put an end to this brawl. Just as her claw-hand was about to pick up the firearm, MJ saw a green streak approaching, striking the space near the gun, narrowly missing her hand. MJ quickly withdrew her hand, turning back to follow what now looked like a tendril as it retracted.

_No way. _

The assassin was still there, advancing towards her with a limp. But what caught MJ off-guard was the fact that there were four tendrils with a green and black pattern emerging from the man's back, three of them waggling in the air with barbed ends while the fourth one continued to retract.

_What are you_? MJ thought, right before the three of the tendrils came at her. MJ ducked, but not before two of them hit her, one lodging in her side, and the other slicing across her left arm.

_Agh! I need to end this_, she thought, before another burst of pain shut off all extraneous thought. While two out of four of the tendrils had smashed into the kitchen furniture, the one which had lodged into her side seemed to be wriggling around, bringing further pain and disorientation to MJ. It felt as though she had been stabbed, and the knife was now being twisted further into her body.

As MJ sank to the ground again, she reached over with her right hand, which was still a claw, and grasped the tendril firmly, intent on pulling it out. The pain was excruciating, but she clenched her teeth and kept pulling, feeling the tendril as it pushed in the opposite direction, struggling to remain firmly embedded. Finally, she managed to pull it out with a yell, turning towards the assassin.

If the assassin was surprised that his opponent had similar skillsets to himself, he didn't show it, yanking the tendril MJ held in her hand towards him.

MJ felt the tug, but didn't think quickly enough to release the tendril, getting yanked quickly towards the man, blindly reaching out to grab ahold of one of the kitchen island's drawers. She felt as though her arm was about to get pulled out of its socket, but she held on tightly, pulling herself up while ignoring the pain from her puncture wound. But as she was finding purchase for her feet again, she noticed out of the corner of her eye as the other three tendrils sped towards, her, forcing her to hit the ground with a roll.

As her feet hit the floor after the controlled tumble, MJ sprang up and struck a blow to the man's chin with her right elbow, following up with a knee to his stomach. Doubled over now, MJ struck him with her elbow again in the back of his neck, while positioning her right foot, causing him to trip and land on the floor.

Even though he had been stabbed in the leg and severely bruised multiple times, the interloper was still undaunted, quickly rolling over and lashing out with two more tendrils, which gave him a total of six extra appendages.

MJ ducked in surprise and, without thinking, fired off a stream of webbing from her right arm, similar in appearance and consistency to the rest of her parasitic "other."

Unfortunately, he dodged the webbing, moving his head at the last second, causing it to hit the floor next to him. His own right hand then transformed, becoming a green-black claw, taking a hold of the webbing and pulling MJ towards him.

Given how the web stream was still attached to MJ, unlike the tendril she had been grasping earlier, there wasn't much she could do as she hurtled towards him, her back bumping into the wall brutally as she fell onto the ground next to him. Immediately, she felt one of his tendrils wrap around throat, but this time, she was ready. Striking out with both hands, she hit him across the face twice, stunning him. She then sat up and, taking her own strand of webbing, wrapped it around his throat, pivoting herself so both of her legs had a brace, one on the kitchen island, and the other on his right shoulder.

It was disturbing, hearing him gasp and choke for air, but MJ kept at it, not thinking so much as operating on pure survival instinct, intent on ending this fight. Feeling the organic webbing with her human hand was rather unpleasant—with its texture similar to a sticky wet worm—but MJ simply tuned it out.

Of course, this man had no intention of going down without a fight, with most of his tendrils thrashing about wildly and a few firing off blindly in MJ's general direction. But he couldn't see her very well, so his aim was off, generally just jabbing in the air near her.

Suddenly, he went limp, as did the tendrils, wilting like flowers. MJ began to catch her breath, panting as she allowed the webbing to retract back into her forearm. She brushed away the red hair from her forehead and—

_OhmyGod. _

MJ pushed back from the body, repulsed by what she had done, her mind switching back to a more rational level. It was as though she had just emerged from a bad dream, waking up to realize that it was actually a reality. She began to feel something rising up in her throat and she turned away, partially pulling herself into the dining room, away from this carnage. She began to dry-heave, but nothing came up, fortunately.

_I killed him…I killed him…I killed him…I—_

MJ wasn't there anymore. She was back in her house, and it was dark out. Floodlights were everywhere...it was like she was on a stage. Her mother was in front of her, wearing the robe she had received from MJ. It was pink, but suddenly, a flash of purple. Then…blood. Blood began spilling down her front, staining her robe. It was too terrible, it was horrible, she was—

_"Mommmeee!"_

She was back. In Jessica's house, staring at the floor, on her hands and knees. Sweating heavily and panting, traumatized by the flashback.

_I killed someone…I actually—I'm a murderer…My mom…_

_**Mary…**_

MJ partially sat up, legs still sprawling as she covered her face, beginning to feel the tears coming.

_Go away. _

_**You needed to protect her. **_

___Leave me alone._

_**Jessica needs you, Mary. She's hurt. Bleeding badly.**_

_I'll just…hurt her. Like I've hurt everyone else. _

_**You protected her. She would have been in far worse condition if you did nothing. You saved her life. **_

_No. I couldn't have…_

_**You did. But she still needs your help. Otherwise, this will be for nothing. Go. **_

MJ sniffed away her tears, wiping them on her jacket sleeve. As much as she hated to admit it, the creature was right.

She needed to see how Jessica was doing. __


End file.
